Patient 9
by MsMenna
Summary: What if Matthew Crawley did not die the day his son was born? This story tells his tale through his own journal entries as a patient suffering amnesia in a London hospital. No one is searching for him and there is a grave with his name on it. Find out why. This could be cannon.
1. October 29th, 1921

October 29th, 1921

"I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me."

It is ironic that I do not know my own name, yet I know that Rudyard Kipling wrote this line. I hear my inner voice recite it in my waking hours and, sometimes it surfaces, again, in one of my dreams. Since it is one of the few things that I do remember, it is significant, albeit unfathomable. So much is. That is why I am determined to keep this journal. I do not want to forget any more of my life.

My physician, *Dr. Head, which seems a much too perfect name for a neurologist, has explained to me that my brain has suffered a severe trauma. That is the direct cause of my memory loss. He has, also, done his best to ease my anxiety over my current state by asserting that retrograde amnesia is rarely permanent. "Rarely" is good, but still leaves room for legitimate concern. I can only hope that I do not join the ranks of the "rare" unfortunates who must forge ahead without full knowledge of themselves or what they have lost. It is a frightening prospect, yet one I must face. Fortunately, I am not facing it alone as Dr. Head and his staff here at The London Hospital in Whitechapel have been a constant source of compassion and support.

I do not know the exact source of the trauma to my brain, but have been told that the injuries I sustained were consistent with an automobile accident. In addition to the head injury that has rendered me clueless, I have 4 broken ribs, a fractured wrist (luckily, not attached to the hand that I write with) and a very sore back. The pain there is sometimes worse than the headaches that plague me almost daily ranging from mild to excruciating.

Dr. Head believes, however, that my back may have been damaged long before whatever accident befell me and this new injury compounded an already existing wound. Perhaps one sustained in the War? There are countless questions and no concrete answers. Yet.

For now, I accept that this place, this hospital ward, is my home. And, I will respond to the name of "John," as it is the name I have been assigned, until I can recall the one given to me at birth. Miss Pomeroy, the nurse who cares for my daily needs, pointed out (and rightly so) that "Patient number 9" was entirely too impersonal, and we both agreed that "John" is as good a name as any. Whatever my name, I am alive, and I am healing. There is hope. That is what is most important.

I will end my first entry here as I have grown tired but am,exceedingly, pleased that I have accomplished my mission in recording my thoughts this day.

**AN: This is my first fan fiction. I was motivated to write it by Fellowes' decision to have Matthew Crawley die. Unacceptable. A hefty number of "reviews" will, no doubt, ensure more M/M fans drawn to this story and learning how Matthew could have survived. Please add to those numbers by leaving your comment **

**FYI: Dr. Henry Head was an acclaimed neurologist that served on staff at the London Hospital at Whitechapel in 1921.**

**Disclaimer: All characters pertaining to Downton Abbey throughout this story belong solely to Julian Fellowes (though I wish it weren't so)**


	2. October 30th, 1921

**October 30th, 1921 – Journal Entry**

This morning I awoke to the glorious sight of sunlight pouring through each of the high open windows across the room in rows of incandescent rays. For a brief moment in time, as I lay transfixed by the unearthly display before me, I wondered if I had died and were in heaven. Then, I heard a gagging sound to my left, and my attention was diverted to Henry Wheeler heaving the contents of his stomach into a metal basin. That set me straight.

Fourteen hours have passed since poor Henry failed in his attempt to hold down a meal. He, and the nurse who must attend his needs, have my unending sympathy. I am fortunate in that my body tolerates the medication prescribed to me very well. So well, in fact, that Dr. Head deemed me able to get out of bed today. Though I still cannot walk without assistance due to the length of time I have been off my feet, and I do become lightheaded if I move too quickly, I was able to sit upright in a wheelchair for the majority of the morning without distress.

This accomplishment resulted in my being able to enjoy the sunshine that trickles into the ward first hand, as I was allowed to spend a few hours in the lovely courtyard provided to patients and visitors. And it was there that a tiny piece of the puzzle, which is my life, fell into place. It became clear early on to me, and any one in my vicinity, that this was not the first time that I availed myself of the assistance of a wheelchair. As I seamlessly guided the chair around the courtyard, at times too swiftly for Nurse Pomeroy's liking, and stopped it easily when prompted to, there was no doubt that I spent a considerable amount of time prior to this bound to the metal contraption. Dr. Head visited me after my outing (and reading a report of my activity) to let me know he was now convinced that I had a pre-existing injury to my back that was recently aggravated, and that it was severe enough to cause temporary paralysis in the lower half of my body for a substantial amount of time.

Paralysis. That is a lot to take in. This morning I knew nothing about my life prior to the time I opened my eyes in the hospital bed that I occupy still. Now, I have found that in my past I suffered pain and great loss . I have learned that the path I have traveled has not been an easy one. There has been at least one huge obstacle to my happiness and well-being. And I have prevailed. That says a great deal about who I am. No longer am I a stranger to myself.

This knowledge only makes me crave more. I am anxious to reclaim the life that I have lost, and I will do whatever it takes to succeed. I will not allow fatigue, pain, impatience or disappointment to defeat me.

Tomorrow, Dr. Head is going to have me view the clothes and other belongings that were stored away for me upon my admittance to the hospital. His hope is that the sight of my personal items might jog my memory.

Now, with optimism that has been bolstered by my discovery, I will rest my aching muscles and leave my unanswered questions for another day.

**AN: I hope you enjoyed this segment. I will update as soon as possible.**

**Thanks for your support and kind reviews.**


	3. October 31st, 1921

**October 31****st****, 1921**

I am spent in every possible way a human being can be. The excitement that propelled me in the early hours of the morning as I awaited Dr. Head's arrival is gone. It has been replaced by a weariness that runs so deep that I feel it in my very soul. Thoughts trip over one another in my muddled brain as they come to me much too quickly. My tired and aching body yearns for rest. Yet, I cannot close my eyes. Not with this new knowledge I possess.

How can I have any respite when I have discovered that the life I led before this was shared with someone? No, it wasn't shared with someone. It was shared with "the one." The one that I chose above all others in this world to be mine, the one that loved me enough to spend the rest of her life with me. And I have left her alone. Though I cannot recall her face or her name, or anything else about her, it pains me deeply to know that I have caused this woman, my wife, unimaginable pain and sorrow. For it stands to reason that she either believes that I am dead or have abandoned her. I cannot decide which is worse.

I do not know what I expected to happen when Dr. Head entered my room today with Nurse Pomeroy and a laundry bag with "Patient 9" pinned to it. But, I did not expect this. When she dumped the contents of the bag onto my bed, I was greatly disappointed that nothing I saw was familiar to me. The tattered blue shirt stained with blood and caked on dirt that lay before me could have belonged to Henry Wheeler for all I knew. Along with the shredded shirt were the remnants of my suit jacket and vest in the same battered condition. Nurse Pomeroy explained that in order to treat me, the attending doctor had to have these items of clothing cut off my body. It was imperative that my head not be jostled. The sight and scope of the blood on my clothing made my stomach jump.

All evidence before me pointed to a very serious accident, one that could have easily taken my life. I asked Dr. Head how I could have survived it. He explained that gashes to the head bleed profusely even when they are not life threatening. I was admitted to the hospital with a deep cut on the left side of my skull which required multiple stitches. That wasn't the only gash found on my body, but it caused the majority of the blood stains. He further surmised that a sizeable amount of it trickled down my face and pooled in my ear. At first sight, this appeared to be a sign of internal bleeding. Fortunately, upon further examination, that was not the case. This was the first time my neurologist discussed my condition with me. Even though I still cannot remember my accident, I now can visualize the aftermath of it. Somehow, that helps.

The next article of clothing that I examined was my trousers, which, thankfully, were still in tact. It wasn't the sight of the lower half of my suit that made my heart race (as my memory was no better than before,) but what I found inside the right pocket. Nestled in the silk lining was a shiny, gold wedding band. I didn't recognize it as mine, but was not surprised when I placed it on the fourth finger of my trembling left hand and it fit perfectly. In vain, I tried to keep the tears that welled in my eyes from spilling. I could not speak, and I cannot be sure how long I simply stared at the ring on my finger before Dr. Head and Nurse Pomeroy gathered up the pile on my bed and left.

So there it is. I prayed to God last night that the sight of my belongings would bring a revelation, and my prayers were answered. Now "be careful what you wish for," comes to mind. As well as the possibility that my wife may not be the only cherished person that has been lost to me. I am no fool. I know that since I am a married man, I may also have the blessing of being a father. If so, there could be many hardships that my beloved faces at this moment without me to support her and our family. I can only hope she is a storm braver, as she would have to be to survive. And she must survive, as I have, because I am only half myself without her and she without me. If...No...when my memory does return, I know that I will find she was the last person I thought of before the darkness came, and she will be the first person I think of when it is lifted.

To my beloved wife, in the event you ever are privy to this journal, I am sorry that I could not honor all the vows I made to you on our wedding day. Only death should have parted us, not this limbo that I cannot breach. I implore you to never forget what we have shared. Our memories are in your safekeeping now. I trust that since I gave you my heart and my name, that I loved you terribly much every day of our life together. I want more than anything else to feel that love again. And should we have a child, I want to stand at your side loving and guiding our little miracle through life.

I can stop writing now. I've said what needed to be said. So, I will end this entry by asking God to watch over those I love and to quiet my mind so that I can find some small comfort in sleep.

AN: The next chapter will clear up a few questions that may be nagging you right now. Please review. Thanks.


	4. November 5th, 1921

November 5, 1921

At last, I have broken free of the invisible ties that bound me to my hospital bed this past week and have rejoined the living. When Nurse Pomeroy discovered me sitting in the Common Room this morning flipping through the pages of the Daily Express, she smiled and exclaimed, "Alleluia!"

It pains me to record that it took five days of relentless pleading, and no small amount of bullying on her part, to pull me out of the doldrums. So much for my vow at the start of this journal that depression would not impede my progress. Both Nurse Pomeroy and Dr. Head have told me that such a goal was then, and is now, unrealistic. They have also proclaimed that I am being too hard on myself. Apparently, depression goes hand in hand with amnesia, and it is not easily kept at bay no matter how diligent your efforts. Looking back to the onset of my melancholy, I can see that it stemmed from pure sadness and frustration; sadness that I have a wife that is foreign to me (as so much else is) and frustration that the sight of my belongings did not produce the desired result.

I must admit that though I did my utmost to curb my expectations that day, I did hold out hope that all would become clear to me once I held a tangible part of my past in my hands. Now, I ask myself what is my recourse? Should I squash any hope of my returning to the life I led? I am finding it difficult to navigate this fine line between optimism and despair. Yet, I know that I must if I am to avoid the despondency that enveloped me these last few days.

I am a fortunate man as I can count on Nurse Pomeroy's vigilance and intervention, if necessary, in order to keep me from drowning in my own sorrows. This tiny woman, who appears no older than 25, has a commanding presence. And, she makes no bones about what she will and will not tolerate from those in her charge. Defeatism is at the top of her list of the "unacceptable," and she works tirelessly to keep it out of our ward. I have pondered on more than one occasion what is her driving force, and today I found my answer. My dedicated nurse is a war widow. Her husband was badly wounded in the battle at the Somme and died two week's later of septicemia, a likely result of the filthy conditions that existed in the field hospital where his right leg was amputated. During the two weeks that her husband lingered on in France, the letters he wrote to her often included praise for the nurses who made his remaining time on this earth bearable. Upon learning of his death, Nurse Pomeroy picked up the mantle of the unsung heroes that aided her husband in his last days.

This information was relayed to me while she went about her task of stripping the linens (that I had denied her access to in the past 4 days) with alacrity as I sat in the "visitor's chair" stationed far enough from my bed to allow her free movement. I offered her my sympathy for her loss, and she responded by requesting that I call her by her Christian name, which is Lilian, whenever Dr. Head was out of earshot. She added that she hoped we could be friends, a request that was completely unnecessary since I considered her one already. I, subsequently, agreed to address her as Lilian going forward as I reasoned it would not be considered an intimacy when I would not be alone in doing so. I have heard other patients in the ward address her in this manner when Dr. Head is, ostensibly, out of hearing range, or when he appears to be pretending to be out of hearing range (possibly to avoid addressing any impropriety?) One such patient is Henry Wheeler, who I have mentioned previously, and who is still beset by bouts of nausea. Even though Henry isn't assigned exclusively to Lilian, as the head nurse of the ward, she has interaction with all housed here. I have enjoyed spending time with Henry (when he is not availing himself of the dreaded metal basin) as he is a very personable young man. With skin as white as his bed linens, wavy red hair, and a welcoming smile to all despite any personal discomfort he may be dealing with, Henry is a good-natured chap that is liked by many, including Lilian.

No sooner had I familiarized myself with her name than it sprang from my lips in an ear piercing shriek (as Henry relayed to me after the incident,) during what is medically termed a night terror. Doctor Head has explained that this is a nightmare of sorts where the person experiencing it becomes extremely agitated and cannot be woken easily. It is common to those who have suffered head trauma. During this night terror, Henry, as well as the rest of the patients in my ward had their sleep disrupted by my loud and ongoing outburst. Though her scheduled hours had ended, fortunately, Lilian had not yet left the hospital. Once she heard me crying out her name, she rushed to my bedside. I remember nothing of my night terror, and was quite surprised upon waking from it to find Lilian's small hands gripping my upper arms like a vice, and Henry bent over my body peering intently into my eyes. I regained consciousness in a cold sweat and very confused as to what was happening.

That confusion escalated when Henry spouted, "Who in the bloody hell is William?"

I looked to Lilian as I had no clue what Henry meant, and she told me that she found me with my eyes wide open, though clearly not conscious of what I was saying or doing, screaming the same thing over and over again: "Is William dead?"

Yet another question to add to my ever growing list.


	5. November 19th, 1921

November 19th, 1921

Few leaves remain on the massive London planes that border the hospital courtyard. Soon the trees will be bare as Autumn makes way for winter. It seems impossible that two months have passed since my broken body was deposited here like the morning newspapers with haste by an unidentified good Samaritan, a male, about 30 years of age. I cannot personally thank this man who, most likely, saved my life because he did not provide the nurse at the admitting desk one bit of information about himself or me before he bolted out the front doors. Knowing she would be required to give details to her superiors, the admittance nurse left her post and ventured out onto the street after him, but he was lost to her in the hustle and bustle common to Whitechapel Road in the early morning hours. Therefore, my benefactor remains as much a mystery as my past.

I am blessed, however, to be able to recall all recent events in my life. The past 60 days (for the most part) have produced memories that have become indelibly etched in my befuddled mind. That was not a certainty when I began this journal. Yet, even though I remember the events that have transpired since I regained full consciousness (which I have been told was at the end of September) it has taken more than the sight of the denuded trees for me to appreciate the amount of time I have spent recovering. I know that it took four long weeks until the plaster cast on my wrist was removed. As time wore on, the skin beneath it itched so badly that I feared for my sanity. Witnessing my discomfort, Lillian gave me one of her knitting needles which was narrow enough to fit through the tiny opening in the front of the cast. I poked the point of the needle inside and moved it quickly back and forth as the friction provided me some much needed relief. Nearly the same amount of time was spent before my broken ribs healed to the point where the stiff white bandaging that wrapped around my chest, like a boa constrictor readying his prey for consumption, could be unwound. This experience has caused me to wonder why all women do not remove their corsets and burn them, as I cannot imagine any level headed person tolerating such discomfort for vanity's sake. Enough time has passed, too, so that the potatoes and bread that have been a staple on my luncheon tray these past months have fulfilled their purpose. I no longer appear gaunt or unhealthy. Truth be told, although I still suffer some aches and pains as a result my injuries and the regiment of exercises that are meant to strengthen me, my physical condition has greatly improved. If I could only say the same for my mind.

My neurologist remains firm in his belief that any damage resulting from the trauma to my head is not permanent, and he sees no reason why my memory will not return to me once I am fully healed. He cannot, however, gauge how long the process will take. Today, he relayed a story to me of a young man found wandering on a train station in Paris with no recollection of how he got there. The local authorities showed a picture of this man to nearby residents in an effort to solve this mystery, and, hopefully to reunite the man with his family. The police discovered that the last time the man was seen by anyone, he was headed off to war on a train that left from that very station. The man did not recover his memory for many years, and he may never have if not for the intervention of one of Dr. Head's colleagues, a renowned psychologist named William Halse Rivers. Dr. Rivers has treated a substantial number of soldiers who have suffered shell shock as a result of the time they served at The Front for king and country. With intensive psychotherapy, the man's memory was, finally, restored. Dr. Rivers learned that at the root of his patient's amnesia was the years he spent as a prisoner of war in Germany. The horrific memories of that period of time in his life were too much for him to bear. That is why his psyche blocked them. It was necessary to keep him from going mad. Unfortunately, everything else that transpired in his life up to that point was blocked, as well.

Hearing this remarkable story gave rise to my questioning, not for the first time, whether or not any effort had been made by my wife or some other family member to locate me. It seems unlikely that my disappearance would not have been reported to the police. And, if it were, they would, logically, begin their investigation in local hospitals by questioning anyone not accounted for who had been injured in an accident or violent crime. I inquired if any such request had been made since my arrival, and learned there had been none. I cannot help but wonder why that is so. Even in the unlikely event that my wife and I were estranged, wouldn't she still care enough about me to want to know my whereabouts? Somehow, I know that if it were her that went missing, I would never stop searching.

The possibility of such an estrangement caused me so much anxiety that I could not touch my dinner that evening. Lillian could tell that I was troubled, and she would not leave the ward until I told her what it was that caused me such distress. When I did tell her, she first asked that I not take what she was about to say in some way other than it is intended. Once I assured her that I would not, she stated, quite emphatically, that she doubted there was a woman in all of London, or anywhere else for that matter, who would not consider herself fortunate to have me as her husband. Such kind words. My fervent hope is that there is truth in them as it pertains to the woman that holds my heart.

And what of the remainder of my family? Since I am still relatively young, I do not think it unrealistic to expect one or both of my parents would still be alive. If so, would they not do everything in their power to seek me out? I would imagine my mother, especially, would leave no stone unturned.

Yet, two months have passed, and no one has come to claim me.

While voicing my concern to Dr. Head, he assured me that the hospital has made every attempt to locate anyone who may know who I am. And toward that end, he has recently enlisted the aid of an investigator at Scotland Yard, a former patient of his who feels indebted to him as he saved his life.

Perhaps the good doctor will prove to be my savior, as well.

AN: Dr. William Halse Rivers is not fictional. He is a noted psychiatrist and psychologist who served in WWI treating soldiers that suffered shell-shock. He, also, worked closely with Dr. Henry Head in the the London Hospital. Also, the story of the amnesiac in Paris is based on a real person who did, in fact, lose his memory for many years due to events that transpired while he was a prisoner of war in Germany. His name was Octave Majoin.

**AN: I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. I promise you by the end of this story all mysteries will be solved. Please review!**


	6. December 8th, 1921

December 8th, 1921

It has been quite an eventful day. Soon after I finished my breakfast, I learned that Henry Wheeler is going home tomorrow. I admit that I have mixed emotions about Henry's departure. To be sure, I am pleased that he will now return to his family and a life that was abruptly interrupted in early September when he fell from a scaffold, and in Henry's words, "cracked his head like a walnut." The poor chap fell quite a long ways before he passed through some shrubbery and hit the brick pavement - hard. Henry has declared on more than one occasion that he would not have survived the fall if not for "divine intervention," and I cannot deny that the evidence he presented to support his claim is not without merit. To wit, Henry would have, likely, expired long before reaching any doctor if not for the close distance between the accident site, St. Mary's Church in Whitechapel, and the London Hospital. Furthermore, that distance was traversed quickly on the day in question as a local dairy driver, who had just completed his last milk delivery, happened to pass by the church at exactly the same time Henry fell. The driver stopped immediately, assisted the man who had been working with Henry in lifting him into the back of his lorry, and transported him to the hospital within a few minutes. Coincidence? Perhaps, but Henry does not believe that. Clearly, he a man of faith.

For reasons unknown to me, I am, too. Each night before I close my eyes I speak to God. First, I thank him for sparing my life, and then I ask that he return that life to me. Tonight, my prayers will be slightly altered as I will give thanks for Henry's change in circumstance. My happiness for Henry is not tinged by envy but by sadness that he will no longer be here. I can already feel the loss knowing this is the last night we will share this place. l will miss Henry terribly because in spite of the time that he has spent with his head in a metal basin, and the time I have spent with my own in a fog, we two have spent enough time together to become friends.

On the subject of fog, the ward is full of new arrivals because it wreaked havoc upon London for two days during the last week of November. The mist was so thick that accidents were rampant, even though there were few automobiles or lorries on the road. Three of the patients admitted on those days were involved in head on collisions and one man was injured when he ran into a street pole (knocking himself unconscious in the process) in order to escape an oncoming lorry. This gentleman caused quite a ruckus in the ward this afternoon. Regrettably, before it was all over, his behavior drew me into an unfortunate incident which involved Lilian. To begin, I was deeply engrossed in a novel she had lent to me titled, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles, " written by a new author named Agatha Christie. At the very moment Hercule Poirot, a very clever detective from Belgium, was about to reveal who poisoned Emily Inglethorp with strychnine, I heard Lillian call out for help. I looked up from my book to find her held firmly in the patient's grasp and pulled nearly on top of him. I could see that she was alarmed as she thrashed about in an attempt to break free. But, even in his weakened condition, she was no match for him.

Outraged by seeing Lillian manhandled in this manner, I swiftly crossed the room and forcibly grabbed the man's arm while shouting, "Unhand her, Sir. You forget yourself!" The offensive patient looked at me through glazed eyes as if seeing me, or anyone else for that matter, for the first time (which was probably the case) and quickly let go of Lilian.

It was then that I realized that my heart was beating very quickly, and my hands were trembling. I discovered what anger feels like. I, also, discovered that I do not like it, and was grateful when it dissipated. Lilian, once freed, suddenly found humor in the situation and burst out laughing. When I asked her if she had gone mad, she responded by mimicking the words that I had used to bring her attacker to his senses.

"Sir, You forget yourself.", she said with dramatic flair.

I saw the direction she was heading, and smiled at her.

She returned my smile, and proclaimed, "John, many men have passed through these doors forgetting themselves..including you."

With that, I could not help but laugh along with her.

As if the day was not already full enough of surprises, before it ended I was paid a visit by Detective Sergeant Joseph Cosgrove from Scotland Yard. He advised me that although my case had already been investigated by the Missing Person's Division of the Metropolitan Police, and suspended as no witness with pertinent information could be found, he was going to, personally, continue the investigation at Dr. Head's request. He stated his goals were simple: discover my identity and the identify of the person who brought me to the hospital as he is the missing link to my accident. He went on to say that once these two were uncovered, my past would become an open book. Detective Cosgrove did not say reaching his goals would be a near impossible task. It was not necessary as that was quite clear already.

As to why he was going above the call of duty on my behalf, he did, in fact, feel indebted to my neurologist. Detective Cosgrove filled in the blanks that Dr. Head did not render to me by relaying how they came to meet. Year's earlier, while still a young officer, he was badly injured patrolling the streets of London when his mount went lame. While examining the animal's back hoof, the mare was spooked by a rat and kicked him squarely in the head. He was brought to the London Hospital, where it was discovered that he had suffered a hairline fracture to his skull. The detective went on to say that he was completely unconscious for two days, and the situation had looked bleak that first week. No matter, Dr. Head would not rest until he achieved a complete recovery and was able to return to the police force. Two month's later, he did just that.

I believe I have met my next friend.

**AN: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" was Agatha Christie's first novel, and the debut of Detective Hercule Poirot. The premise of the book sounds very interesting. I may try to get my hands on a copy. As I've done in previous chapters, fiction and history are going hand in hand. On November 28th and 29th, 1921 London was crippled by a dense fog that prevented food and milk from being delivered.**

**I hope those enjoying this story (or those who may have constructive criticism) will review. Thanks!**


	7. December 16th, 1921

December 16th, 1921

I have sat here for at least five minutes with my pen hovering over this page in search of the precise word to describe how I feel. Elated? Euphoric? Overjoyed? None of these superlatives seem adequate. I have been on cloud nine since Detective Hosgrove brought me the news that he has obtained information that may lead him to the man who brought me here. Finally, after three long months, a breakthrough!

I had not expected to see the detective so soon after his first visit, and was surprised to see him glide through the doors of the Common Room closely following behind Lilian. As they drew closer, I could not help but notice the bright color in her cheeks, no doubt due to the close proximity of my visitor. Lillian had shared with me earlier in the week that Detective Sergeant Cosgrove had made quite an impression on the nurses in the ward. At the time, I wondered if she had counted herself as one of the group enamored with the handsome police officer investigating my case. Her high blush provided me with my answer. This did not surprise me as Joseph Cosgrove is, no doubt, as handsome as Valentino, and quite amiable. He is also, as I learned recently from Dr. Head, a widower. That fact, I would imagine, adds considerably to his appeal for those ladies still baiting their hooks.

Once Lillian left, the detective recounted the events that led to his discovery. Since he was not satisfied that enough effort was put into questioning the nurse at the Admitting desk the day I arrived, he petitioned her to grant him a second interview. The nurse, Miss Barnes, at first was reluctant to spend any more time discussing the matter as she was certain that she had relayed all the information that she possessed.

Fortunately, for me, Detective Sergeant Cosgrove was an officer who would use every resource at his disposal to get what he wanted. And, he did that day. Before he left the hospital, Miss Barnes agreed to answer any of his questions later that evening when they would be dining together. During their meal, he learned that the man who carried me into the hospital wore a cap with an insignia emblazoned upon it. Miss Barnes had described the man's clothing to the police when she was first interviewed, but at that time, she had no recall of the lettering on the cap.

This time, when she was questioned, the detective insisted she describe the man down to the last minute detail. Once she remembered the insignia, the floodgates were opened. It then occurred to her that this particular insignia was not completely foreign. In fact, she now vaguely remembered seeing a man who wore a similar cap at least once before that day at the hospital. The detective continued his tale by telling me that after deliberating for a few moments, Miss Barnes slammed her hand on the table and cried out, "He is a deliveryman!" She then added that she remembered seeing a truck parked across the street when she followed the man out of the hospital. At the time, she thought nothing of it as many establishments in the area, including the hospital, routinely received deliveries.

Detective Sergeant Cosgrove paused, and then told me that I needed to breathe. I had not realized that I was holding my breath.I resumed breathing, and he resumed his report by giving me the last piece of information that he received that day. The delivery truck that was parked across from the hospital was owned by Smith's Potato Crisps. The reason Miss Barnes recognized the cap was because the crisps were delivered to the hospital on a monthly basis and she had, in fact, seen it at an earlier point in time. Furthermore, he advised me that he was meeting with the owner of Smith's the following Monday (the day the owner would be returning to London) to ascertain the name and address of the driver.

I wanted to pinch myself to be certain that I was not dreaming, but knew it would have to wait until the detective was out of sight as he would think me unhinged. I joined him while he made his way out of the hospital. As we walked side by side, he admonished me to attempt to restrain my optimism as we had a long road ahead of us. I admitted to him that this would not be an easy task to accomplish, but promised I would make a valiant attempt. A moment before he reached the last doors leading out onto the street, he took me by surprise by stopping short and asking if I would commend him to Lilian. I'm sure I looked as perplexed by his request as I felt. Sensing my confusion, he added that he was hoping that she would accompany him to Hyde Park, if weather permitted, the following day. I replied that I would do so gladly, but wondered what would lead him to believe that my opinion held any weight.

He responded, "If I did not know better, I would think you speak in the spirit of mockery for it is as clear as day that Lilian Pomeroy is in love with you."

Now, I will pinch myself.

**AN: Hyde Park is one of the largest parks as well as one of the Royal Parks in London. It was the site of the Great Exhibition of 1851 which was a World's Fair of its time. Rudolph Valentino was an actor and screen idol. Quite the heartthrob in 1921. Finally, there was an actual company by the name of Smith's Potato Crisps based in London that produced and delivered the popular snack. I guess some things never change.**


	8. December 17th, 1921

December 17th, 1921

I have been thinking about Lillian. More precisely, I have been thinking of the events that transpired yesterday as a result of Detective Cosgrove's thinking about Lillian, and, then, coming to the conclusion that she is in love with me. This news, was literally, left at my doorstep by the detective on his way out of the hospital. As the heavy mahogany doors closed behind him, I remained rooted in place with my mouth agape, shocked by what I had just heard. It took a few seconds for me to regain my composure before I headed back to the Common Room. As I climbed the stairs leading to the second floor and my destination, I knew that I must give serious consideration to Detective Cosgrove's claim. He had, after all, been trained by Scotland Yard in the art of observation and deduction. Yet, I could not fully accept what he said as fact until I found evidence of my own that would support his assertion. I searched for it in my mind as I slowly made my way back. It was not difficult to find.

I discovered the evidence in Lillian's smile the day she handed me the mystery novel she had borrowed from the library. I found it in her eyes as they searched my own for consciousness during one of my night terrors. And the proof I sought was abundant in her words, never more so than when she assured me that any woman would consider herself fortunate to have me as a husband. As I reached the last step, it was clear to me that Detective Cosgrove saw in two short visits what I was blind to for months. He also must have seen that Lillian's feelings were not reciprocated by me. Otherwise, he would not have asked me to intervene on his behalf regarding the meeting he suggested to her.

My mission for the remainder of the day was to convince Lillian to accompany Detective Cosgrove to the park while keeping my newly found knowledge regarding her feelings under wraps. I resolved to accomplish this for her sake as well as my own, as Lillian deserved something that I could not give her, but Detective Cosgrove would. Upon entering the room, I saw her standing over the gramophone that was donated to the ward a few week's earlier, carefully positioning a record on the turntable. As the tune she had chosen began to fill the room, she spun around and smiled as she caught sight of me walking towards her.

I had no recollection of the song (which was not surprising) but the melody was pleasing and the chorus was uplifting. A woman with a very strong voice was singing that we should "look for the silver lining when e'er a cloud appears in the blue." I stopped walking, and stood motionless in the center of the room as a feeling of contentment washed over me. I never wanted the song to end. When it did, the effect it produced faded away. Lillian called out to me to join her as she searched for the next record to play. Once I reached reached her, she told me she could tell that I liked the song that had just ended. She went on to say that this song was one of her favorites. It was from a musical that only managed a short run a few year's earlier called, "Zip Goes a Million." I wondered if all musicals had such odd names. Then, I remembered what it was that I had to convince Lillian to do. My mission was accomplished quickly as she was eager to thank Detective Cosgrove for the progress he has made in my case; and I am happy to report that I managed to steer her in the right direction while keeping Detective Cosgrove's disclosure regarding her affections under my hat.

When I next see Dr. Head, I am going to tell him how I reacted to the song I heard today. It may have some importance in the great matter.

**AN: As you may already know, "Zip Goes a Million" was a show that flopped in 1919 although a hit song, "Look for the Silver Lining," came out of it. As for Patient #9's reaction to the popular song, Sigmund Freud, as well as many other noted psychiatrists, found that a patient's subconscious mind did not forget, even though they did. Patients would react positively or negatively to visual objects or something that they heard that produced strong emotions before they lost their memory. Hence, Patient #9's reaction. We know how he felt when he danced to it previously!**

**Many have asked when Mary will appear in this story. Without giving away the ending of this journal, I can say that she will appear. I just cannot tell you when or how just yet. if you stay with this till the end, I do believe you will be happy you did.**

**Please review.**


	9. December 18th, 1921

December 18th, 1921

Three months to the day that I was admitted here, I am being released. This will be my last journal entry as a patient in The London Hospital. I learned that I was going to be discharged when Lilian stopped by (with Detective Cosgrove in tow) to be certain that "all" had been fine in the ward during her absence. Since she came straight to my bedside upon entering the room and began reading my medical chart, I think it safe to say that the "all" she was referring to was, in actuality, "me." Lilian read the first line of notes on the top page, and quickly tossed the chart onto my bed. Clearly piqued, she rushed out of the room. Detective Cosgrove's gaze followed her until she was out of sight. He then turned to me, threw his hands up and shrugged, indicating he had no idea why or where Lilian had gone. Since she made her abrupt departure after reviewing my chart, I surmised that something she read was the cause of her agitation. I retrieved it from where it landed at the foot of my bed and scanned the first page. "Patient being discharged" was scribbled in bold ink at the top of it.

My heartbeat quickened as I searched the rest of the notes to learn where I would go upon leaving the hospital. I reasoned that I would not be released to the streets without a penny to my name nor knowledge of it. Yet, the only alternatives to my becoming a homeless beggar on the streets of London frightened me more. I assumed that I would either be discharged to the Whitechapel Workhouse or the London County Asylum for Paupers.

I learned more than I wanted to about the workhouse from Robert Norwood, a patient that was admitted here in early November suffering a mild concussion. He told me that he was grateful for his injury as it enabled him a respite from the misery he endured daily at the place. Despite demands by the Health Ministry to improve living conditions there, it was still overcrowded and infested with vermin and disease. I was horrified to hear from Mr. Norwood that up to 20 men would wash in the same bathwater, and those crammed into tiny bedrooms would have to defecate in a hole dug in the corner of that room.

My other path led me to a county asylum that housed the criminally insane alongside the suicidal and amnesiacs. I read an article in "Stars and Stripes" about the facility as it houses many returning soldiers who left their sanity on the battlefield. I held out hope that my memory would return to me before I was well enough to be released from this place. It never crossed my mind that if that were not the case, I would join the ranks of the destitute and the mad.

My thoughts had consequence. Panic rose quickly inside me. My hands, still gripping the chart that held my fate, became slick with perspiration and they began to tremble. I could feel my chest muscles tighten, making it difficult for me to draw in full breath. My racing heart beat so loudly inside my restricted chest, that I could hear it pounding like a drum in my ears. Detective Cosgrove, observing my worsening condition, called to Lilian for help. She arrived quickly at my bedside. Noting the chart that I still held in my shaking hands, she gently pried it from my fingers and handed it to Detective Cosgrove. Then, she told me that she knew the cause of my distress as Robert Norwood had told her about our conversation. Lilian went on to say that she, also, read the same article I had regarding amnesiacs being treated at the county asylum.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "You have my word that you will never step foot in either of those places. If that means that you will have to share my flat with me, I will welcome you to do so...and, to hell with my reputation."

Detective Cosgrove, surprisingly calm for a man who had just been privy to Lilian extending me an invitation to live with her, interjected, "I do not think that will be necessary, Nurse Pomeroy, as Henry would never allow such a thing."

It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to my neurologist, Dr. Head, by his Christian name. Over the years, he and Detective Cosgrove had became good friends. It made sense that he would now refer to him as "Henry."

This morning I learned that the detective from Scotland Yard knew his friend quite well. The other patients in the ward were surprised to see Dr. Head at the hospital on a Sunday. That was, usually, the day he set aside to spend with his wife, Ruth. Lilian told me that they shared a lovely home in Eaton Square in Belgravia. I heard my doctor's voice booming in the hallway long before he entered the room with a colleague at his side. Once he reached me, he introduced his companion as Dr. William Halse Rivers. I had heard of Dr. Rivers on previous occasions. He is a psychiatrist, as well as friend of my neurologist, who treated soldiers during and after the war who suffered from shell shock. He, also, was the doctor who cured the amnesiac in France who was found wandering at a train station with no memory of how he got there. The two of them had come together to propose that I become part of an experiment they would be working on that pertained to my condition. Their task was to prove that the cause of retrograde amnesia was not confined to physical injury.

Dr. Rivers held Sigmund Freud's belief that amnesia may also occur as a result of a horrific emotional trauma. Both he and Dr. Head doubted that my my amnesia was the lone result of the head injury that I obtained in my accident. In order to test their theory, I would begin psychotherapy with Dr. Rivers the following week. Dr. Head then advised me that he had received permission from the Board for me to accompany him to the hospital on a daily basis so that he could observe my behavior. During that time I would also be required to assist him with the patients in the ward in any way he saw fit, even if it were just to commiserate with them as I knew, first hand, what they were experiencing. Finally, I was told that I would receive a weekly stipend for my participation in their study, and I would receive two weeks in advance so that I could purchase the clothes and other items I needed. Dr. Head joked that it was not appropriate for any employee at the hospital to report for duty wearing pajamas and bed slippers. I could not have hoped for a better outcome to my dilemma. I expressed my undying gratitude to both doctors who stood before me. I would thank God later in my prayers.

The only thing I had left to worry about was where I would hang my hat. When I broached my living arrangement with Dr. Head, he told me that Lilian had confided my fear of being sent to an asylum or workhouse to him.

His last words to me before leaving with Dr. Rivers were, "John, you are an intelligent and courageous soul who I admire and care about. I would no sooner discharge you to a workhouse or a madhouse than take up residence in one myself."

Dr. Head then proceeded to invite me to be his and his wife Ruth's house guest until I was able to provide suitable lodging for myself.

My prediction has come true. Dr. Head, is without a doubt, my savior.

**AN: Matthew was without memory and destitute after his car accident. As such, he would have been sent to a pauper's asylum or workhouse infirmary for lunatics. There was no different treatment for mind disorders in Great Britain in 1921. The Whitechapel Workhouse is a real place. My description comes from a report of the abysmal living conditions by one of its inmates. True, too, is the relationship between acclaimed physicians. Henry Head and William Halse Rivers. They performed many experiments together during their long friendship. Dr Rivers was a psychiatrist who followed Freud's footsteps regarding The classification of amnesia due to psychological stress.**

**Please leave a review and recommend this story to others you may think would enjoy it. In the next journal entry, we will learn what Detective Cosgrove discovers regarding the man who brought Matthew to the hospital.**


	10. December 20th, 1921

December 20th, 1921

I feel as though I have stood before the gates of hell, and found safe passage to heaven. Dr. Head's intervention has saved me from a fate that could easily be argued worse than death. I am certain that many of the poor souls who dwell in the workhouses and asylums throughout this land would support that argument. If only they all could be spared as I have.

In truth, I have been more than spared as this is an enviable place for any one to call home. I stand in awe of the beauty that surrounds me here, and relish the warmth that not only emanates from the fire in the hearth, but those who have welcomed me under this roof. From the moment I passed through the threshold, Mrs. Head fussed over me as though I were a dear friend that she had not seen for far too long. She told me that she felt as though she knew me already since Henry had shared so many details about me with her. He had divulged some about her to me, as well.

I knew after spending 30 minutes conversing with Ruth Head, who insisted I relax and have a cup of tea before getting settled in my room, that the praise Dr. Head gave his wife was warranted. As for my neurologist, although he did join us in a large Drawing Room with pale blue walls and an ornate ceiling bordered with white plaster cherubs, he did so with a notebook and pen next to his cup (which did not seem to bother Mrs. Head in the slightest) in the event that I said something noteworthy. Much to his delight, and my surprise, I did. Somehow, our conversation had steered toward the size of the house and Eaton Square in general.

I was glad that it did as I was quite surprised to find that Dr. Head lived in such a grand place. From what I had seen in our journey here from the hospital, this was securely an upper class address, not one you would attribute to a doctor contracted with a hospital in Whitechapel. Grand white stuccoed townhouses, four or five stories high, and joined together by ornate iron terraces lined the streets that encompassed a magnificent central garden. And, there was a mews house in the rear with space for servants over a large garage.

Dr. Head explained that he inherited the property from a lieutenant that he had treated for a head injury in 1917. At my urging, he offered further detail and recounted that the officer was a patient of his that he treated in a hospital in Belgravia. The Officer's hospital was set up in 1915 by Lady Northcliffe, the wife of a newspaper proprietor and publishing magnate, Alfred Harmsworth, 1st Viscount Northcliffe. Dr. Head recalled it had 20 beds and an operating theater with white marble walls. Lady Northcliffe, personally, petitioned him to treat Lieutenant Philip Bradford as he owned a home not far from her own in Belgravia. He had been admitted to the hospital in an unconscious state, and all signs pointed to his imminent death. Dr. Head found him to have a fractured skull which, with proper care, did heal in time. After a few months, the lieutenant was released to his wife, Emily, who pledged eternal thanks to Dr. Head for saving her husband. She had feared the child she was carrying would never know his father.

At this point, Dr. Head lowered his head and stopped speaking, clearly reluctant to continue. His wife, sensing what I did, picked up the tale from where he had left it. Emily and Philip Bradford were blessed with a healthy baby boy three months after he was released from the hospital. The new father rejoiced that he had survived the War, and would be able to raise his newborn son, knowing that there were many in his regiment that had lost that opportunity forever. He credited Dr. Head for his survival, and it was in the spirit of gratitude, that he named him as one of his beneficiaries in his will. He would be third in line following his wife and any of his offspring.

Mrs. Head said she doubted Philip Bradford ever imagined that his doctor would be the lone survivor upon his death. In 1919 his wife, Emily, and their 18 month old son, Jonathan, were lost to Spanish flu. Shortly thereafter, heartbroken and alone, the grieving widower was cut down when a blood clot, probably a residual of the trauma to his head, burst inside his brain, and killed him instantly. Dr. Head lifted his head and completed the tragic tale by adding that he was notified shortly after that he was beneficiary of the Bradford estate. At first, he did not want to accept his inheritance as he and Ruth were quite happy with their circumstance in life. It was very simplistic compared to that of someone living in Belgravia. In the end, though, they both decided that they must honor Philip Bradford's dying wish, as that was what the contents of a will contained.

They would not, however, wholly change their style of living. The top two floors of the townhouse were closed off as they were not needed, and the remaining rooms were maintained by two housemaids, hardly the staff of the other houses in Eaton Square. They brought the cook that had been in their employ for 10 years prior to their move, and Mrs. Head still joined her in the kitchen, albeit a much larger one than before, to prepare one of Dr. Head's favorites when the mood struck her. That is how they became part of the increasing number of noveau riche in Belgravia.

My heart bled for the family that fate had only allowed a few precious years together. That was what I was thinking, but the words that came out of my mouth were, "Ypres took his life, after all." Dr. Head's eyes widened as he asked me if I understood what I had just said. I explained that since he was wounded in 1917, I assumed it was during the last of the battles at Ypres, one of the bloodiest in the War. He, then, asked me if I knew of any of the other battles and readied his pen and notebook.

Without giving his question much thought, I replied, "Mons, the Marne, Verdun, the Somme, Arras, Messiners, Passchendaele and Amiens. I believe it ended with Amiens in 1918."

Dr. Head looked amazed. He told me that either I was a historian or had played a very active role in the War, probably as an officer. He was leaning toward the later, surmising only an officer would be able to list the battles as I just had.I did not have time to ascertain what benefit, if any, my ability to remember the battles fought in the Great War would be before a housemaid named, Rose, entered the room announcing that Detective Cosgrove had arrived.

I was anxious from the moment I opened my eyes this morning to hear what he had learned about the driver who brought me to the London Hospital. Now that the moment was at hand, I found it difficult to swallow. I searched Joseph Cosgrove's face as he entered the drawing room but it gave nothing away as he smiled brightly and clasped Ruth Henry's hands first before shaking her husband's. They were both aware of the reason the detective had come, and Dr. Head offered to give us privacy so that he could report what he had discovered in his interview with Frank Smith, the owner of Smith's Potato Crisps in Cricklewood. I asked them both to stay as I knew I could rely on their support should the information not be favorable.

It was not. My heart sank when Detective Cosgrove relayed that the driver, James Bower, had left Smith's employ at the end of September to join his brother-in-law in America. Apparently, his sister's husband had established a moving company in New York that was thriving, and Mr. Bower was offered a driving position that might lead to a share in ownership down the line. His sister sent him the funds to book passage to New York as soon as possible. Mr. Bower had not left Mr. Smith any other information pertaining to his whereabouts once he reached his destination.

Mrs. Head rose from her chair and stood behind me with her hands placed on my shoulders. She and her husband were well matched in their compassion for others. Noting my disappointment, Detective Cosgrove encouraged me not to give up as he did collect some information from Frank Smith that could be of help with my case. Mr. Smith provided him with a list of all the delivery stops Mr. Bower had been assigned on his route. It was quite long, beginning in London and traveling as far north as Thirsk, roughly 300 kilometers away. It made sense to the detective that at some point in Mr. Bower's delivery route, he was either a witness to or the cause of my accident and came to my assistance. Since my injuries were so grave, he further deduced that Mr. Bower would have brought me to the nearest hospital. He could not imagine him risking my death by delaying my treatment by a doctor, and it was clear that he valued my life. He reasoned that if he did not, he would have left me at the scene.

The detective's next step would be to contact the local authorities at the stops Mr. Bower would have made that were within close proximity to the London Hospital . He was certain that my vehicle would have been impounded for further investigation. Surely, some police officer would have been assigned to locate the driver of a motor car abandoned after an it had been involved in an accident. I heard every word he said, but those that stood with me long after he left, the ones that disheartened me, related to Mr. Barrow being out of reach.

I will end my entry now, as I look forward to sleep in what I am sure will prove to be a much more comfortable bed than what I have become accustomed to.

**AN: Please review. Every kind note encourages me to start a new chapter in order to solve this mystery for Patient #9.**

**Eaton Square is one of the three garden squares built in 1827 by Thomas Cubbitt for the Grosvenor family, landed gentry who owned the property which forms Belgravia, still a "securely upper class address". In fact, one of the most expensive, and desired places to live in Great Britain. There was an officer's hospital in Belgravia estblished by Lady Northcliffe. Both she and her husband are part of London's history. Patient #9's accounting of the battles in WWI is spot on.**


	11. December 24th, 1921

December 24th, 1921

Three brisk knocks on my bedroom door alerted me that it was time to rise and ready myself to accompany Dr. Head into Whitechapel. Although reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, I tossed the coverlet aside and quickly gathered my clothes to dress so I would not delay him. We needed to arrive at the hospital before my doctor made his scheduled rounds as we had been enlisted for a special mission by Mrs. Head. Upon opening my bedroom door, I was delighted by the distinct aroma of freshly baked cookies and frying bacon that wafted up to the second floor of the house.

There was no doubt in my mind that the Christmas cookies and mince pies prepared by Mrs. Fielding (who proved to be an excellent cook) and Mrs. Head would be savored. I was quite certain, too, that the boys and girls in the Children's Ward would delight in the sugar cookies baked especially for them in the shape of Father Christmas. Each one was frosted with red and white icing, and small bits of chocolate filled in nicely for Santa's eyes and the buttons on his coat. It was Mrs. Head's way of bringing some cheer to the children who could not be home for Christmas, and I was happy that I could play even a small part in her plan.

I took pleasure in the knowledge that some of the scents that were making my mouth water stemmed from the food we would be served for breakfast, and with that thought, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase. Once I reached the first floor, I went straight to the kitchen where I found Mrs. Head playfully slapping her husband's hand as he was caught sampling one of the cookies from a tin meant for the hospital. There were more than a dozen of them stacked neatly on the long table that was used by Mrs. Fielding when preparing the meals for the household. Ruth Head giggled like a schoolgirl as her husband, dramatically, hung his head in shame over his pilfering. I had learned recently that they had been married for 35 years. Yet, they behave more like newlyweds. They greet each other with a kiss no matter how little time has passed since they last parted. She enjoys cooking his favorite foods and will do so on a whim without assistance from Mrs. Fielding.

I came upon the two of them laughing in the kitchen yesterday, most likely due to the flour that was smudged on both their faces. Dr. Head was pushing a stray strand of hair out of his wife's eyes, while she went on kneading the dough that would soon be baked into his favorite bread. Mrs. Head adjusts his spectacles when he is reading and she deems them too low on his nose. Mr. Head makes sure she doesn't begin what she calls her shopping adventure unless she brings an umbrella with her in case of rain. I have found they can discuss politics as easily as poetry during dinner, and before they lift a fork to their mouths, they share the highs and lows of each of their days.

Mrs. Head shared with me that at one time her husband traveled to Cambridge each weekend for five years while working on an experiment with Dr. Rivers. They had each kept what they named a commonplace book in which they recorded their daily experiences. Then, when they were reunited, they exchanged the books to catch up on what they missed. I told her that I regularly make entries into this journal and would hope that one day my wife would read it. She smiled brightly and said that she was certain that she would be grateful that I kept it for her.

Once Dr. Head was forgiven for his misdeed, we all left the kitchen and made our way through the Great Hall in order to access the Dining Room as breakfast awaited us. While walking through it, I marveled at the size and beauty of the Norwegian spruce that had been delivered the day before and stood ready to be adorned. It appeared to be at least 25 feet in height and, easily, 10 feet wide. Its dark green needles filled the room with the sweet scent of evergreen, which also emanated from the kissing bough that hung from the elegant crystal chandelier in the center of the room. It was filled with glass baubles and decorated with mistletoe, ivy, and long strands of velvet ribbon. Knowing Detective Cosgrove and Lilian had accepted Dr. Head's invitation to Christmas dinner, I had no doubt the detective would maneuver my former nurse into standing directly under the mistletoe as tradition would dictate a kiss.

Upon our return from the hospital, we three, along with the household staff would begin decorating the tree. The two housemaids, Rose and Beatrice, had laid out the ornaments to be hung on it on a nearby table There were colorful glass balls, stars, and figurines along with fairy lights, tinsel and Christmas crackers to be placed on the boughs. I felt caught up in the excitement of the holiday preparation and looked forward to viewing the tree with all the trimmings. Mrs. Head reminded her husband that it was getting late. Having made quick work of our breakfast, we gathered the tins of cookies and pies and headed to the garage to pack them in his car.

It was rare for Dr. Head to drive himself to the hospital. His preferred method of transportation is the underground railway, which he boarded at Victoria Station, only a few minute's walking distance from his home. He praised the technology that enabled the inhabitants of London (and those visiting) to navigate it with relative ease and expenditure. The car, however, was better suited to transport the considerable amount of baked goods that lined the back of his Crossley four-seater.

I welcomed the amount of time that it would take for us to reach our destination as I wanted to revisit Detective Cosgrove's assumptions regarding Mr. Bower with him. After rehashing the details that Detective Cosgrove had provided, both Dr. Head and I agreed that the detective's reasoning was sound, and that the new information he possessed could lead to the breakthrough we had all been hoping for. I do not know why I felt the need to add that his task would have been much lighter if someone had notified the authorities when I went missing. Perhaps I did so because I remain baffled as to why no one has searched for me. I have attempted to solve this conundrum for months, but my efforts have produced nothing but more unanswered questions and heartache. It seems futile to keep trying, but not knowing the reason gnaws at me.

I shared my thoughts and fears with Dr. Head, including my theory that my wife must believe that I have abandoned her or our family, if we have children. I confessed how much that thought pained me as I held there was no greater sin a man could commit than deserting his family. He nodded his head in agreement. I then added that my torment would be even greater tomorrow knowing that she, and perhaps a child of ours, would spend Christmas without me. Dr. Head's eyes never veered from the road, but I could still see the empathy in them. My mood darkened, and I tapped my head against the side window in frustration.

Dr. Head said with levity, "Listen here, old chap. I have spent a considerable amount of time and energy getting that head of yours to work properly. Do not undo my good work."

I could not help but laugh.

He then became serious and asked, "Did you ever wonder why I never have had your photograph placed in any of the London newspapers for the purpose of identification?"

I replied that, at first, I had assumed it was because of the cost involved in doing so. He shook his head quickly back and forth indicating that was not the case, and went on to proclaim that he considered no expense too great if it resulted in me regaining my life.

Then, he directed another question to me,"Can you not think of any reason, beside what you have shared with me, as to why your wife or, perhaps, a close relative of yours, would remain silent on the matter of your disappearance?"

This time I did not reply. He looked at me, now with sadness in his eyes, and told me that the reason he did not post my picture was because he and Detective Cosgrove held the belief that it could jeopardize my safety. They could not in good conscience release me to my wife, or any other person closely related to me, knowing they had not lifted a finger in three months to discover my whereabouts.

His next words cut me like a knife, "You have imagined your wife to be a grieving angel, but, in actuality, she may not be. Joseph has even entertained the possibility of her being involved in your accident in some way."

I was not offended by this as I was certain that Joseph Cosgrove has entertained a great number of possibilities when it comes to my case. He is, after all, the Hercule Poirot of my mystery. We were getting close to the hospital, and there was, gratefully, little time left for further discussion.

Dr. Head's final words on the topic were "I adhere to the principles of Occam's Razor."

I shook my head, as I had no knowledge of it.

He explained, "When you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions, the simpler one is the better."'

Joseph agrees with this. You would, too, if it not for the fact that you have forfeited logic for self-preservation. Meaning you have blocked out the simpler theory, which is your wife did not file a Missing Person Report because she does not want to find you. We rode in silence the rest of the way.

Whitechapel stood before us. The townhouses of Eaton Square were replaced by factories and seven-storied tenement houses that were connected by long clotheslines instead of the lovely terraces found in Belgravia. Black smoke rose from the factory chimneys and smog filled the air. Many of the houses were quite old and in dire need of repair. I learned from a few of the patients that lived in Whitechapel that the tenements were overcrowded, at times housing ten people in two small rooms. The disparity between the social classes in this place and the one I would return to with Dr. Head was glaring. I wondered if it upset him as much as it did me, but now was not the time for that discussion. Once Dr. Head parked the car, we unloaded the back seat and made our way up to the Head Trauma Ward. We would begin distributing the tins of cookies and pies there.

It felt odd passing by my empty bed, although it made me glad to see that the ward was not as full as it had been when I left. Thankfully, some chaps made it home for Christmas, which I am sure made them happy no matter where that home may be. Those that remained quickly sampled the delicious baked goods they were given. Each mouthed their thanks while devouring the contents of the tin on their lap. My spirits were lifted at the sight of it. They were raised even more when I saw Lilian walk into the ward with a large poinsettia in her arms which, shortly later, I found was a gift for Mrs. Head. Once she reached me, she stared at me for a moment as if she did not recognize me. When I asked if something were wrong, Lilian smiled and said was not accustomed to seeing me dressed. I knew it would not take her long to realize her poor phrasing before she blushed. And she did. I allowed her a moment to wallow over her faux pas before I told her that I knew precisely what she meant.

We discussed the plans for dinner the next day and agreed that it would be wonderful. I could not help but tease her a bit about Detective Cosgrove and the kissing bough, but she would not rise to the bait. Instead, she told me Dr. Head had sent her to bring me to the Children's Ward to make my special delivery. It was full as there had been an outbreak of flu a week earlier and many were still recuperating. Lilian joined me in handing out Father Christmas cookies, making sure every child received one. They all beamed at the sight of their treat once they were able to free it from the small satin pouch Mrs. Head had wrapped it in.

Though many of the young patients were still flushed with fever, and, noticeably fatigued by their illness, none of them complained, not even about having to spend Christmas in the hospital. A tiny, thin girl with curly red hair, who appeared about 5 year's old, insisted on giving me a kiss to thank me for her cookie. I was set to oblige her, but Lillian intervened and suggested to the child that she give me a special hug instead. She knew that would lessen the risk of any contagion. The little one's hands were sticky with icing, and when she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck, the majority of it wound up in my hair. The sight prompted Lilian to squeal with laughter.

There was one cookie left when I reached the last bed in the Ward. The recipient was a little chap named George who had blonde locks and large blue eyes. He was still, somewhat, feverish, and the glow on his cheeks when added to his beautiful features made him look like an angel. I told him as much and he smiled brightly in spite of his discomfort. He pulled his cookie out of the pouch and thanked me for it, but said that he was not hungry and placed it on the stand next to his bed. Lilian asked him if his stomach hurt. He shook his head from side to side. She then asked if anything else hurt him.

He replied, "It hurts that my Papa cannot come to see me."

I looked to Lilian for an explanation, and she, in turn, ventured down the hall to ask the head nurse for the information we sought. When she returned, she told me that George's father was working on the docks as this was the busiest time of year. He had to work whenever the opportunity presented itself as he had five mouths to feed. Little George's mother had a newborn at home which prevented her from visiting the little boy. Sadly, we would be George's only visitors that day. The little chap would spend the night before Christmas without both of his parents. I felt tears well in my eyes but fought them back as I was determined to be as brave as the little boy in the bed before me. For the first time that I could remember, I wished that I was a man of means. At that moment, I wanted to find George's father and fill his pockets with whatever he required in order for him to leave the docks and spend the remainder of the day here with his boy. I took George's small hand in mine with no intention of speaking to him, but, somehow the words spilled out of my mouth.

I said, "When you love someone, they are always with you as they never leave your heart." He looked up at me and smiled before closing his precious blue eyes and quickly fell off to sleep.

Dr. Head met me after completing his rounds, and we walked to the exit of the hospital with Lilian who had completed the half day assigned to her on the eve of the holiday. She told Dr. Head and I that she was headed to Woolworths in nearby Spitalfields to purchase a Christmas tree. It was made out of feathers, which she added was the latest rage. Dr. Head and I shook our heads in disbelief as we made our way to his car and she made hers down the street. I was placing the poinsettia onto the back seat when I heard a tapping sound on the window. I turned to find Lillian signaling to Dr. Head to roll it down.

Once he did, she gushed, "I forgot to tell you that this morning we had a delivery of potato crisps by the same company that Mr. Bower worked for. I noticed something during the delivery that I think might have some importance. When the driver returned to the lorry, after making his delivery, he found two boys in the back stuffing packages of crisps inside their shirts."

Dr. Head interrupted Lillian by stating that the boys were, probably, in desperate need of something to eat, and he hoped the driver hadn't called the didn't address Dr. Head's concern.

She continued, "Do you not see what that means? The drivers leave the back doors of the lorry open so that they do not have to keep unlocking it when they make deliveries. Detective Cosgrove told me that one of his theories is that Mr. Bower discovered John somewhere near London on his delivery route and brought him to the closest hospital. That might not be what happened at all. John, fueled by the adrenaline that the body produces after an accident, could have managed to climb into the back of the Mr. Bower's lorry before losing consciousness. Mr. Bower may not have known he was there until he reached London and opened the back doors of the lorry."

I looked at Dr. Head and said, "Occam's Razor."

He looked at Lilian, then to me, and smiled.

**AN: Sorry this update took so long. I have had my first experience with writer's block, but I refused to give in to it. I think I channeled Mr. Crawley, after all. Please let me know if you agree. Many are visiting this story but not leaving a review. I would truly appreciate your input. "I like it" will do.**

*** I thought you all would like to know that in the next entry John will begin psychotherapy with Dr Rivers in an attempt to learn his identity. Reviews push me to write more quickly. Had to put that out there.**

**As has been the case all along, many of the details I've provided here are not fictional. I researched the type of tree that was used in the 1920's in the UK and came up with the Norwegian Spruce. For families that were not wealthy, the rage was feather trees in 1921. Fact. I, also, discovered what a kissing bough is, as to my knowledge, we never had them in the U.S. Henry Head and his wife Ruth are described as they are in history. Dr. Head did spend 5 years working with Dr. William Halse Rivers on an experiment which, coincidentally, was about the regeneration of nerves after they were damaged. Dr. Head spent a great deal of time studying the effects of trauma to the spine in WW1 Soldiers. Sound familiar? Woolworths was all the rage in London in 1921. There were hundreds of stores throughout the United Kingdom and they had huge gala openings, sometimes even providing circus animals. Last but not least, the definition of Occam's Razor is spot on. I agree that the simpler theory is the better. There have been a few presented here. I wonder if you have followed the clues to find it.**


	12. December 25th, 1921

December 25th, 1921

The fire in the grate is near its end as is this glorious Christmas Day. Yet, I have no desire to sleep. Excitement and unbridled joy are flowing through me like the electric current that sets the chandelier in the Great Hall aglow. I owe my euphoric state to the genius of Dr. William Halse Rivers, who has taken on the role of Father Christmas for me this day. Dr. Rivers has managed to set a crack in the wall that has blocked my access to any of my memories before Whitechapel. Though the fissure is small, the result has been anything but. A few short hours ago I was able to glimpse a moment in time that I had, heretofore, not known existed along with the only person in my past that I did.

I had no idea when Mrs. Head told me Dr. Rivers would arrive Christmas morning that his presence would have such a profound affect on my life. Still, I looked forward to getting to know the acclaimed physician who, according to Dr. Head, would provide me my best chance of recovery.

I can hear his voice booming over the clatter of plates as the maids laid out breakfast, "Dr. Rivers is brilliant, John. He is the youngest medical graduate in the history of St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

I, also, learned from Dr. Head that a psychiatrist in Vienna named Joseph Breuer had achieved success in curing amnesia by regressing patients in time through hypnosis. Dr. Rivers would adhere to that line of treatment in my case along with psychotherapy. Dr. Head stated that this would require my sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with Dr. Rivers. It seemed quite a daunting task, and even more so if I had to share my deepest hopes and fears with a complete stranger. I vowed I would rectify that situation today by engaging Dr. Rivers in as much conversation as I possibly that end, I swiftly rose from my chair when I recognized the man with the handlebar moustache and intelligent eyes entering the dining room and offered him my hand as well as a "Happy Christmas."

Lilian Pomeroy arrived with Detective Cosgrove at about noon. We all greeted them in the Great Hall, and Dr. and Mrs. Head, happily, introduced them to Dr. Rivers. Since they appeared at exactly the same time, it was clear that they made their way to Eaton Square together. I was very pleased to see it. My hope is that their relationship will progress to one beyond friendship, and fill the void that all who have known great love and lost it suffer. Lilian has come to mean a great deal to me, and I have found a friend in Detective Cosgrove in the short time we have come to know one another. As my former nurse crossed the room to greet Dr. and Mrs. Head, I could not help but notice she looked stunning in the blue velvet dress she wore. The style flattered her slim figure, and the color transformed the color of her eyes from pale gray to that of the Channel on a sunny day. Detective Cosgrove could not take his eyes off her, though it was clear he was making a valiant attempt to do so. Ruth and Henry Head greeted him with the type of smile that I knew was reserved for those they held dear, and it was not in short supply this day. Dr. Rivers was also a recipient, and it warmed my heart each time they shared it with me.

Lilian passed through the middle of the Great Hall on her way to greet me. I met her half way, and unbeknownst to either of us, until Dr. Head gleefully pointed it out, we found ourselves standing directly under the kissing bough. If Detective Cosgrove had not been delayed by his introduction to Dr. Rivers, I have no doubt, that it would have been him instead of me looking up at the mistletoe above my head with amusement. I had suspected that was his plan all along, and I hated to be the one to foil it. Yet, tradition had to be met. I placed my arms around Lillian and kissed the top of her head. She, in turn, planted a quick peck on my right cheek. It was something a brother and sister would do, and I could tell that Detective Cosgrove was pleased by , he saddled up to me on our way to the dining room and teased me by stating that he was unaware that amnesia affected one's awareness of their surroundings.

I knew his comment was made in jest, and responded in kind, "Perhaps your memory, too, has been diminished as you seem to have forgotten that you are the man escorting Lilian home later."

Christmas dinner was a memorable affair. We all feasted on a perfectly cooked turkey with cranberry sauce, chestnut stuffing, roasted potatoes, gravy, and parsnips. Everyone wore a paper crown, which seemed to amuse Dr. Rivers to no end. The conversation was lively and bounced from one topic to the next. I learned that Dr. Head wrote poetry, and that he had some of his verses published. Dr. Rivers shared with me that beside his specializing in physiology and psychiatry, he was, also, an anthropologist. He remarked that his happiest memories were of the years he had spent in the Solomon Islands studying the Melanesian society. Lilian asked Detective Cosgrove why he decided to become a police officer. He replied that he had been interested in crime solving from an early age as both his father and grandfather had served on the force. In fact, he was proud to say that his father was one of the lead investigators at Scotland Yard when Jack the Ripper had wreaked havoc in Whitechapel.

I doubted that this topic of conversation would be welcome at the dinner table in any other household on Christmas Day, but Dr. Head and Dr. Rivers were men of science, and they found the still unsolved mystery at hand fascinating. Mrs. Head seemed to agree as she asked Detective Cosgrove if he had a theory as to the identity of the man who viciously murdered eleven women. He had more than one, as did both physicians, who now felt a need to make their feelings known. Then, Lilian interjected that it made sense to her that the murderer had medical knowledge as some of the bodies had been surgically altered. She was very familiar with the details of the murders that took place forty year's ago on the same streets she walked daily.

Detective Cosgrove remarked that she would make Sofia Stanley proud. He added for those who didn't recognize the name that she was the first woman police officer at Scotland Yard, even though her service was on a voluntary basis. His comment led to the discussion of Lilian's recent conjecture regarding my case. I was not surprised that I had now become the topic of conversation considering the cast of characters at the dining table. I noticed Dr. Rivers was taking a keen interest in each of the different scenarios presented, and I wondered if he would explore them with me during therapy. I was, after all, the only person in the room who, on some level, knew which one of the theories was correct.

The prospect of eating more food was not that appealing as I felt as stuffed as the turkey before it was carved, but I managed to find room to sample some of the delectable deserts because I knew Mrs. Head had a hand in preparing them. There was a horned cornucopia filled with stuffed dates in the center of the table surrounded by mince pies, sugared almonds and chocolates. Mrs. Head reminded us of the custom of eating one mince pie each of the twelve days of Christmas in order to gain good fortune. I, happily, obliged her as the pie was delicious. Once we had finished desert, she led Lilian into the Great Hall to enjoy the beauty of the Christmas tree in all its glory.

The men moved into the library where we sampled the fine brandy Dr. Head had brought out to celebrate the occasion. He also passed around a box of cigars that was imported from Cuba. Although anxious to find common ground with Dr. Rivers, I had found the taste of tobacco repulsive and declined the cigar he had offered me. I told him that I could not abide by the taste, and that opened the door to conversation as he shared that he and Dr. Head were contemplating giving them up. He went on to say that the first time he smoked tobacco was in 1916 when he was a captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps and stationed at the Craiglockhart Hospital for Officers. That was where he acquired his expertise in the field of psycho-therapeutics. Although Dr. Rivers had a slight stammer, his voice was strong and filled with passion as he then addressed the brave men who broke under the strain of the Great War. He added that his biggest regret was that his treatment of the nervous disorders that plagued thousands who served at the Front did not guarantee they would not be shot for cowardice.

He was silent for a moment, and I could tell he was composing himself before speaking again. When he did, it was to tell me the details of the Christmas Truce that took place in Ypres in 1914.

He said, "A cease-fire was called on Christmas Eve. Once it went into effect, all gunfire and shelling stopped. The Germans came out of their trenches, which were not so very far from ours, to wish our men a "Happy Christmas". They shook hands and sang Christmas carols together. Then, when, the truce was at an end, they returned to their posts and wrought carnage upon one other."

He shook his head back and forth in dismay and asked, "Is it any wonder so many of them went mad?"

I commented that it was a sad state of affairs that those who did survive returned home to find there were few jobs or decent places to live. Many, too, could not get the medical care they needed. Dr. Rivers agreed and told me that he pitied the fact that David Lloyd George's promise of a "land fit for heroes" had never been fulfilled. We remained deep in conversation until Dr. Head suggested it was time to join the ladies.

As we headed out of the library, I petitioned Dr. Rivers to meet with me once the festivities had ended with the hope that we could find a private space to discuss my treatment plan as I was anxious to begin therapy. I was not surprised when he agreed to my request. We rejoined the ladies in the Great Hall, where Mrs. Head had been busy removing the gifts sitting under the tree. There was one for each of us. I was touched by the Head's kind gesture as were the rest of their guests. Lilian was presented with a rectangular box wrapped in red foil that contained a paisley silk scarf. Her eyes widened at the sight of it, and she smiled broadly while arranging it around her neck. Dr. Head presented Joseph Cosgrove with a thick barreled Parker pen with a silver finish. Dr. River's gift came in the form of an exquisitely carved sailboat in a bottle from the West Indies, a reminder of his voyages to a place he loved.

I was the last to receive my gift. Mrs. Head smiled as she handed it to me, and said that she knew it was something I would make good use of. It was a journal bound in soft, brown leather. There was a place carved out on the cover where my name and the journal year would be engraved.

She smiled, again, and said, "I am confident that the day will come when the cover will no longer be bare."

I felt my heart swell, and offered her and Dr. Head my deepest thanks, not only for the journal, but for all they had given me. Lilian reminded Detective Cosgrove that she had an early shift at the hospital in the morning and thought it best that they headed back to Whitechapel. Within a few minutes, they were conveying their thanks to the Heads and making their way out the door. Not long afterward, Dr. and Mrs. Head excused themselves to retire for the night.

The house was as quiet as a church mouse when Dr. Rivers joined me, once again, in the library. Now that we had privacy, he rendered his diagnosis of my condition as well as the course of action he believed would benefit me. I was most curious about his use of hypnosis. Dr. Rivers explained to me that during hypnosis, the psychiatrist uses the power of suggestion while their patient is in an extremely relaxed state to guide them to a subconscious level in their mind. Once there, the patient can recall memories they may have no knowledge of in a fully conscious state. He cautioned that the hypnotic state is extremely diverse and complex, and did not always produce the desired result.

"More often than not, a patient suffering from post traumatic amnesia will recover their memories on their own."

I told him that Dr. Head had shared his belief that my memory would, likely, be jogged by my seeing or hearing something from my past, but that had not proven to be the case. He told me he was aware that I did not recognize my personal items when they were presented to me, but I should not despair. There still could be a trigger that would open the floodgates I asked Dr. Rivers when he had planned to begin our sessions. He surprised me by asking if I would like to attempt hypnosis now. I, readily, agreed.

He told me to remove my jacket and tie and to open the top two buttons on my shirt. I was ushered to what appeared to be the most comfortable chair in the room and asked to sit back and relax. Dr. Rivers spoke in a quiet tone. His voice was gentle, even melodic, as he asked me to take a deep breath, and then another. He then requested that I focus on the index and middle fingers of his right hand and let him know if I felt any sensations in my body. My hands began to tingle and I alerted him of the change.

Next, I heard Dr. Rivers say, "If your eyelids begin to feel heavy," let them start… to fall… shut."

And they did. I was not asleep, yet neither was I, totally, awake. I discovered a place in between those realms, and I enjoyed it. I heard his voice guiding me down a long spiral staircase to the most peaceful and safe place I have ever known. Once I reached it, Dr. Rivers suggested that I picture the grandfather clock in the corner of the library.

He said, "The hands of the clock are beginning to move counter-clockwise, signaling a return to a previous time in your life."

I could see the hands moving backwards before my eyes. Then, I saw an image of a calendar. Its paper was yellowed with age. One by one, the pages were pulled from its binding by what seemed to be a strong gust of wind. Only one page remained when the wind ceased. August 1918 was emblazoned across the top of it.

Dr. Rivers' next suggestion was that I would now be able to view a moment in time that had passed in the same way I would a motion picture playing on a screen at the Cinema. I, also, would be able to tap into my feelings at that moment.

There was silence, and then I heard him ask, "Where are you, John?"

At first, the vision before my eyes was not clear. It felt as though I were looking through a thin veil. Then, it was just as Dr. Rivers had said it would be. I felt as though I had a front row seat and I was the principal player in the drama that unfurled before my eyes. I was lying in a bed with a white metal frame. I was clearly injured. My eyes felt swollen, and lips were dry and cracked. I could sense that I was in bad shape. I felt feverish, and my head ached. My mouth was so dry that it felt felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I took it all in, but did not answer Dr. Rivers' question immediately, even though I could, because I was wholly distracted by the sight of a woman sitting in a chair next to my bed. I do not know why, but as soon as she came into view, I gasped.

Dr. Rivers heard my sharp intake of breath and asked again, "Where are you, John?"

I responded that I appeared to be in a hospital.

He said, "Look around and tell me what you see."

I told him that the room was large with dark paneled walls and tall windows. There were wounded men lying in beds to the right and left of me. The one to my right had a bandage around his head. I reported that I could see a woman dressed in a nurse's uniform pouring water from a pitcher into glasses on a tray. There was a breeze coming through the window a few feet away from me that made the curtains flap like a white flag waving. I finished by saying, 'And there is a very beautiful woman here paying me a visit.'

I was glad that there were no further questions about the room or the men that shared it with me as I could now focus my attention entirely on the dark haired beauty that was smiling at me. I welcomed it, but had the impression that the smile was manufactured for my benefit. The same held true when I looked into her eyes. There was a sadness there that she could not mask. My gaze fell to her hands and found them wringing her handkerchief in her lap. She was overwrought, and it pained me to see her this way. I wanted to help.

Dr. River's asked me, "Do you know this woman?"

I wanted to say that I did, because I felt like I knew her very well, but my attention was drawn to my legs. There was something funny going on with them. I could not, immediately, say what the problem was, but they just did not feel right. In fact, I could not feel them at all.

The last thing I remember is screaming, "Help me. I am paralyzed."

In the same melodic tone as when he began, he said, "John, I am going to count from one to five. With each number you will become more awake and ready to return to a normal waking state of consciousness."

Once he reached five, my eyes opened, and I found a clearly relieved Dr. Rivers closing a bound notebook that sat on his lap.

He said, "Henry was right about you sustaining an injury to your spine in the war. He will be pleased as he hates being wrong."

And here is where my longest entry comes full circle. I think the sun will be up soon. I have been writing for hours, and my hand is begging for mercy. Dr. Rivers has declared our first session a success. I am inclined to agree in spite of the fact that I do not know the name of the woman who visited me at the hospital. I have decided that is not as important as the fact that she was there. It speaks volumes about her and what we mean to one another. Dare I say I have found my wife in that other level of consciousness that Dr. Rivers spoke of? He has told me that he would not be surprised if I did as it would explain why I began rotating my wedding band on my finger the moment she came into view, and did not stop until I opened my eyes. Dr. Head has been proven right, again. Dr. Rivers is brilliant. Now, on to peeling the onion.

**AN: The next chapter is going to solve this mystery, so put this story on alert . All that will be left after that is the epilogue. Hope you refer to any Matthew fans you know**

**AN: Please review. A few short words mean a lot. I realize the last two chapters may have been a bit of a strain on the eyes, but I hope you enjoyed them all the same. The chapters have grown because we are coming down the home stretch. There will be one more long chapter and then the epilogue. I hope you will stay with the story until its conclusion.**

**As has been the case all along, this chapter contains both fiction and fact. I did a lot of research about hypnosis in this time period as it was used to treat amnesia. All three doctors, Rivers, Freud, and Breuer incorporated it in treating patients who suffered post traumatic amnesia. Dr. Breuer specialized in regressing patients in time. I am very grateful for Wikipedia. I combined what I learned by researching the topic with my own personal experience as I was hypnotized a few year's ago, though not for therapeutic purposes. Sofia Stanley was the first woman police officer at Scotland Yard. I am sure you all have heard of Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel murders. Eleven women were brutally murdered and some mutilated back in the 1880's. The story about the Christmas Truce during WW1 is accurate. I cannot imagine shaking someone's hand one day and firing at them the next, but that is the insanity of war. Great Britain was not a "fit home for heroes" when the brave soldiers who fought for king and country returned home. There were 2 million people unemployed and good housing and medical care was scare. There may be a few more facts, but now my hand is cramping! Till next time._  
_**


	13. January 3rd 1923

January 3rd, 1923

"A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor." So said Alexander Smith, the Scottish poet that has been likened to Tennyson. In that vein, I was made destitute while driving on a country road in Yorkshire in September, 1921, and made whole again by a chance encounter in a London hospital three day's ago. Since that time, I have spent every waking moment reacquainting myself with the life that was lost to me and the family that I have been blessed to reclaim. They sleep now, but I cannot rest peacefully until I have fully recorded the events that led up to my reversal of fortune. I think it is fitting that I am doing so in this journal, as it was given to me expressly for that purpose by one who never doubted it would be put to good use. She will be delighted to see that the pages between the leather jackets are no longer blank, nor the cover bare.

Happiness abounds both here and in Eaton Square over my epiphany. Yet, the members of my adopted family share my sorrow that Dr. Rivers died without witnessing the glorious result of his efforts. Dr. Head has still not fully recovered from the unexpected and tragic loss of his good friend and colleague this past June. Dr. Rivers collapsed in his college rooms at Cambridge from a strangulated hernia that was unknown to him. An emergency surgery was performed in an attempt to save his life, but it came too late. The massive crowd that attended his funeral was a glowing testament to the remarkable man he was.

He was eulogized by Geoffrey Harold Wooley, an acclaimed veteran who had received the Victoria Cross for his brave actions at the Battle of Ypres, and Siegfried Sassoon, the poet who so eloquently portrayed the horrors of war in verse. It was clear that they, along with many others, admired and valued Dr. Rivers, and would grieve his loss for many years to come. He is interred in St. Gile's cemetery in Cambridge. At his bequest, he was cremated, and the metal box containing his ashes buried next to a long nosed bottle with a sailboat inside it. Mrs. Head wept with sadness and joy when she learned of it.

I will be forever grateful for all his efforts on my behalf during the six months that preceded his death. He worked tirelessly in his quest to peel the remaining layers of the onion, but the core was deep and he could not manage it. I can only wonder if he would have succeeded with more time. As it is, his use of hypnosis did succeed in providing me with snippets of my past: A soldier with an uncanny resemblance to Henry Wheeler cleaning his rifle in a trench, a young woman with strawberry blonde hair embroidering a pillow, a nurse with blue eyes and the face of an angel carrying a pile of blankets. I was allowed morsels like these as they were safe, but no more.

When Dr. Rivers used hypnotic regression to bring me back to the traumatic event that he suspected was the root of my amnesia, the few details I was able to provide him were nightmarish, reminiscent of an old penny dreadful, and the end result was hysteria on my part. He took my distress as a clear sign that I was not yet ready to face my demons, and heeded it. His very last words to me were those of encouragement. "Remember that your memories are not lost. They have only been moved to another place, and I will not rest until we find it." At long last, he can.

Dr. Rivers was brought up in conversation as Dr. Head and I chatted in his office at the London Hospital on New Years Eve as we agreed that our departed friend would have been pleased that Joseph had, finally, mustered up enough courage to propose marriage to Lilian. To the detective's surprise, but not ours, she gladly accepted him. What surprised me was that Joseph, who I now address by his Christian name as Detective Cosgrove seems entirely too impersonal, had found time to court my former nurse considering his duties at Scotland Yard and the hours he devoted to investigating my case.

During the past year, he visited every one of Mr. Bower's delivery stops and questioned the local constables as well as the proprietors of the businesses. He was assured by the local police that there was no abandoned car found involved in a collision, even a minor one. In fact, the only accident that took place during the same time frame was between a bus and a fuel tanker in Sowerby. The accident resulted in both vehicles going up in flames and, sadly, no gruesome details of the tragic event were plastered on the front page of all the local newspapers. Many of the bodies were so badly burned that they were unrecognizable, even by family members. The unidentified victims had been displayed to the doctors that cared for them during their lifetime with the hope they could assist in naming them.

Joseph left his Scotland Yard phone number with everyone he interviewed, and asked that they call him if they remembered anything out of the ordinary around the time of the Sowerby accident. Though both I and Dr. Head greatly appreciated Joseph's efforts, they were for naught as he never received a call. Both he and Lilian were to join us later that evening in Eaton Square to celebrate their engagement and to ring in the New Year.

Dr. Head had already completed his rounds, and we would have begun our journey home had it not been for the appointment he had set with a doctor from Yorkshire to discuss his brother's condition. The doctor's older sibling was admitted to the hospital a few day's earlier with a mild concussion, which Dr. Head believed an indirect result of his having Parkinson's Disease. He explained to me that the malady wreaks havoc with one's balance. I was rising from my seat to leave the office in search of Lilian to congratulate her on her impending marriage when I heard a tapping sound on the open door behind me. I assumed, and rightly so, that the doctor from Yorkshire had arrived. When I spotted the man with the silver hair and moustache who was standing in the archway of the door, I stopped dead in my tracks. Once he saw me, he gasped, and all color drained from his face.

Then, Dr. Head's visitor cried out, "Good God. You are alive!"

At that moment, it was clear to me that the trigger that Dr. Rivers had spoken of was the man now leaning on the frame of the doorway in apparent shock. I staggered as if I had been shot and fell back into my chair. The wall that had stood between me and my past for over two years began to crumble, and as my first memory was moved back to its rightful place, so did I. Tears formed in my eyes as I envisioned the dark haired beauty who is my wife and mother of my child. There was my Mary Crawley, propped up in a hospital bed peering lovingly into the eyes of our newborn son. Then, I saw myself holding the little chap in my arms and going on about how happy he had made us all. It was as though I were reliving that glorious day, and I felt, once again, as though I had swallowed a box of fireworks. Memories cropped up in my mind like the red poppies that rose out of the churned earth on the battlefields of Flanders and Northern France.

Dr. Head rose from his chair and rushed to my side, confusion and alarm evident on his face. He then turned to Dr. Clarkson, who was still rooted in the doorway and said, "Sir, would you please explain your outburst and how you are acquainted with this man."

Dr. Clarkson crossed the room and stood before me. He kept his gaze on my face as he responded, "I have known Mr. Crawley for the past decade and the rest of his family even longer." He then took a deep breath before he turned to Dr. Head and added, "I am the doctor who signed his death certificate on the same day that I delivered his son." Dr. Head, stunned and rendered speechless for a moment, gripped my shoulder. I still cannot be certain whether he did so to support me or himself.

Occam's razor clearly did not apply in my unique situation. My family was told I was dead. That was the only reason that Mary or any others that I love did not search for me. There were many questions that hung in the air, but I asked Dr. Clarkson the one that mattered most, "How have Mary and my son faired in my absence?"

I let out a sigh of relief when he told me that although my wife had quite a rough go of it for the first six months, she, as well as Master George, were well and content. My son's name was music to my ears as I was not sure until that moment the name Mary had given our little prince. I then inquired after my Mother, who I could only imagine had been devastated by the loss of her only child.

If Dr. Clarkson had responded to my question, his answer eluded me, as at that moment the memory that I had repressed at all cost began to surface. As it did, I became gripped by fear. My heart began to race and the room suddenly felt as though all the air had been sucked out of it. With each second that passed, it became more difficult for me to draw in full breath, and I began to hyperventilate. My eyes fixed on my wedding band as the events that took place on the day my son was born unfurled in my mind's eye. In the background, I could hear Dr. Head shouting for Lilian, the sound of rushed footsteps, and mention of a sedative. I ignored it all as I saw myself driving from the hospital on my way home to Downton.

A huge smile was plastered on my face as I basked in the sun overhead and the beauty of my surroundings. It pleased me, immensely, that one day my son would travel this same road. When I returned my eyes to it, I was surprised to find there was a lorry almost upon me. Adrenaline soared through my body as I turned the wheel hard to the right to avoid it, and my car plunged off the roadway. I reacted quickly, instinctively knowing that I would be thrown from the vehicle if I could not manage to hold onto something. I threaded my arms through the gap in the steering wheel, gripping the top of it from behind as my car plummeted downward. In seconds, the nose hit the ground below and the car flipped over. I did with it. Pain coursed through every part of my body, especially my head. It worsened whenever I tried to lift it. As I lay beneath my car, thankful that I was not crushed by it, I prayed that God would spare me for Mary and my son's sake. I feared the worst when all my pain, suddenly, ceased and I was overcome by a strong desire to sleep. I fought to keep my eyes open, but cannot be sure if I succeeded. That did not matter, as whether they were open or closed, I still found myself slipping into darkness. As I did, I heard a familiar voice proclaim, "He is beyond my help. Matthew Crawley is dead."

I felt a needle prick through my skin, but ignored it as I moved on to my next memory of that fateful day. As it became clearer, I remembered being terrified at that moment in time, but I was now strangely detached from the feelings my memories produced. I found myself waking in almost complete darkness in a very cold place. A foul smell, reminiscent of stale water in a vase of wilted flowers, permeated the air. I was lying on what seemed to be a long table. When my hand gripped the sides of it, I found that it was made of metal. I pushed myself into the sitting position and held my head as it was throbbing. Once upright, I saw a patch of light flowing through a small window about 10 feet away from me. I slipped off the table, and with my arms outstretched like a blind person without a cane, I made my way toward it. A few feet ahead of me, I discovered what felt like the same type of metal table that I had been lying on. I gripped the edge of it until my hand brushed against something cold and hard. Though rigid, I could tell that what I had discovered was a human body. I pulled my hand away as if I had touched fire and ran into the darkness, knocking over a smaller table and falling to the ground with it. I rose as quickly as I could and moved forward toward the lighted path. In it, I found more metal tables and each one supported the remains of the badly charred body of a man or woman. Some of the dead were so badly disfigured that you could not tell the difference. My hands flew to my mouth to muffle my scream as I frantically searched for a means of escape. I found a door toward the end of the room and fled through it out onto the street. It was empty except for a lorry that was parked across the way. I noticed that the back door of it was raised up and I bolted toward it. Once inside, I hid behind the boxes that were piled in the corner. Totally drained of energy, I closed my eyes to rest. I woke next in a hospital bed in the Head Trauma Ward of the London Hospital in Whitechapel.

Finally, i broke away from my self-induced trance and found Lilian kneeling beside me. She was holding my hand and staring into my eyes the way she did when I woke from one of my night terrors. Worry was etched upon her face, though I could tell she was doing her best to hide it. She said, "John, everything is going to be fine." I squeezed her hand and smiled as I knew now that it would be, and said, "My name is not John. It is Matthew, Matthew Crawley." Tears welled in her eyes as she realized what had taken place in her absence. "Well, she said with a sly grin, "I suppose that is as good a name as any."

Dr. Head exuberantly patted me on the back and said, "I am very happy for you, dear chap. I could not be happier."

Lilian and I rose at the same time, and she threw her arms around my neck and proclaimed, "I knew it would happen. No one is more deserving of happiness than you."

She then rushed out of the room to call Joseph and share the news with him. I looked to the only person in the room who was not bubbling over with joy. Dr. Clarkson stood with his head hung low. I could only imagine he was reliving the same day I had, and could not fathom how he could have made such a colossal error. I wondered the same thing, but my priority was to get back home. It was clear to me that the news that I was alive had to be made in person. After some discussion, it was agreed that Dr. Head would drive me and Dr. Clarkson to Downton. We would stop in Eaton Place so that I could retrieve some of my personal items as well as Joseph Cosgrove. Lilian had arranged that he meet us there. The detective would accompany us on our journey as he needed to question both me and Dr. Clarkson before he could officially close my case. The glaring question was why the doctor had declared me dead when I was not.

While Dr. Clarkson made his way back to his brother to let him know he had to leave, I shared my concern that if a plausible reason for his error was not found, Mary would skin him alive. Dr. Head rubbed his hand over his chin the way he always did when he was searching for an answer that eluded him. I watched him closely until I knew that a possibility had presented itself as he absentmindedly nodded his head.

When Dr. Clarkson returned, he asked, "Are you aware that there have been recorded cases, though few, of people who were declared dead that were later found alive by a coroner examining the body or a mortician?"

Dr. Clarkson replied that he thought those cases only took place in the 19th century when the protocol in determining death had not always been followed. He added that he did know that during that period of time special coffins were made available to those who could afford them that included a lever inside so that it could be opened.

Dr. Head went on to tell the story of a colleague of his in Germany who had declared his patient dead after performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation with no success. The man had no pulse, heartbeat, or pupilary response to light when he was sent to the morgue. As he was being moved to the funeral home, he shocked the men that were carrying his body by asking them if could have another blanket as he felt cold."

Dr. Clarkson shook his head in disbelief and proclaimed "That is not possible."

Dr. Head replied that he, too, found the story hard to believe, and if it not for the fact that the doctor who shared it with him was an excellent diagnostician with no sense of humor, he would have thought his colleague was joking." He continued, "Some specialists believe that once the excess pressure that is applied to the chest during cardiopulmonary resuscitation is stopped, the heart may expand, in turn sending electrical impulses to restart heartbeat."

He then asked Dr. Clarkson, "Did you attempt to resuscitate Mr. Crawley in this manner?" Dr. Clarkson responded that he did so for quite some time. The lorry driver, Mr. Fellowes, could corroborate it. "Then, Dr. Head concluded, "I believe that you saved his life."

Dr. Clarkson suggested that it would have taken a miracle for me to have come back to life in this manner.

"No," declared Dr. Head. "What I have just described to you has been proven medically possible. The divine intervention came in 1921 when Matthew Crawley was brought to the very place that your brother would be treated so that you would find him here years later." He added, "If that is not miraculous, I do not know what is."

Miracle or not, I was overjoyed that I would begin 1923 with Mary and my son in my arms. As I passed through the doors of the hospital, I turned to take a last look at the place that had brought me salvation.

We arrived quickly at Eaton Square, and I saw Mrs. Head and Joseph at the window as we pulled up in the car. Mrs. Head was upon me as soon as I walked through the door pulling me into an embrace and remarking that this one of the happiest days she had ever known. As soon as she released me, Joseph grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically as he said, "And here I thought my engagement to Lilian would be the big news of the day." I went to my room and packed a small bag, then raced back down the stairs. Mrs. Head kissed her husband quickly, and then, practically pushed all of us out the front door.

I was not surprised that Joseph was rarely silent during our trip from London to Downton. As soon as Dr. Head veered the car away from the townhouse onto the road, Joseph turned to Dr. Clarkson and asked him why none of my family had seen my body after the accident. It was a legitimate question, and one I had been asking myself since I learned I had been declared dead. Clarkson explained that there was a mistake made at Graspeys, the funeral home that my body was taken to. I remembered that that was the same place Lavinia and Sybil were sent as the Crawleys always used Graspeys. The doctor continued his reply to Joseph by stating that there had been a very bad accident in nearby Sowerby a couple of days earlier involving a bus and a petrol tanker. I saw Joseph's eyes widen as Dr Clarkson relayed the same information that had been given to him during his interviews in Thirsk.

Dr. Clarkson shared further that he and my family were told by the proprietor at Graspeys that my body had been accidentally cremated along with the Sowerby casualties that they housed. The proprietor apologized profusely and had not requested payment for the ornate urn that, supposedly, contained my ashes, and was buried in my grave. Joseph vowed that before he left Downton he would address the, obvious, cover-up that took place at the funeral home and ascertain what poor soul's ashes were contained in that urn.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to find that this new journal is not the only place where my name is engraved. I cannot imagine what it will be like to see "Matthew Reginald Crawley" etched onto a headstone among those in the small cemetery at Downton. Dr Clarkson finished his explanation by telling us that Mary and my mother were livid that they were unable to say "Goodbye," and would never have the closure that one gets from seeing your loved one is truly gone.

When we arrived at Downton, Dr. Head pulled the car around back. Dr. Clarkson had called Robert from Eaton Square and explained that he needed to see him that evening to discuss an urgent matter. Robert balked at first as he had guests staying on at Downton to celebrate New Year's Eve and the holiday the day after. It took a bit of convincing, but Dr. Clarkson, finally, convinced him to allow his visit. Our plan of action was that I would remain in the car and Joseph would stand guard outside in the event one of the servants might come upon it. The two doctors would meet with Robert, and then the rest of the family, to announce (as gently as they could) that I had survived the accident. Once my family recovered from the shock of the news, Dr. Head would bring them up to speed regarding my amnesia and where I had been up to this point. Then, either one of the doctors or one of my family members would come for me.

Though Joseph was firmly planted on the other side of the car window, I slumped down in my seat and angled my hat to cover as much as my face as possible should someone manage to bypass him. I did not want to risk anyone discovering me before Dr Clarkson had the opportunity to explain my presence as the shock might prove too much for them. I was, especially, worried for members of my family and the servants that were not as spry as they once were. I remembered how Carson had collapsed when he pushed himself too hard, and though I knew Cousin Violet was made of stern stuff, her heart had been tested a great deal in the last few years.

I was grateful that there were two doctors present in the event they would be needed, though I hoped that would not be the case. I remained in the car and listened closely for any sound that would indicate my wait was over. It seemed hours since I saw the two doctors enter the house, but when I lowered the window and asked Joseph how much time had passed, he insisted it was only about ten minutes. My heart raced with the excitement and anticipation that I would soon be reunited with those I held most dear. It all felt like a dream, and one that I never wanted to end.

My breath hitched when I heard Joseph addressing someone a few feet away from the car. Slowly, I inched my way up in the seat, making certain that my hat still hid most of my face and peered out the car window. My heart felt as though it would burst through the wall of my chest as I saw Joseph conversing with my own dear mother about four feet away; and a short distance from them, standing in the entrance way to the house, stood Mary. She had her arms wrapped around her and was bouncing in place on her heels, a beautiful bundle of nervous energy. In the moonlight, I could tell her eyes never wavered from Joseph and Mother. I felt tears sting as I saw my mother turn from Joseph and rapidly make her way toward the car. I feared if I threw open the door, she may have collided with it, so I waited for her to reach me.

She, first, came to the window and peered in it. I smiled at her through the glass, and as she took me in, her face lit up brighter than the moon. Mother pulled hard on the door handle with one hand while waving Mary on with the other. I exited the car as my wife bolted from the doorway, and as soon as I was on my feet, Mary was in my arms. She cried my name over and over again as I held her, and before she brought her lips to mine, I heard her murmur "God, If I have gone mad, I beg you to keep me this way."

When the kiss ended, I swept her off her feet and spun her round and round as I had the glorious night she accepted my marriage proposal. When I placed Mary back on the ground, she reached her hand out to my mother. She was standing close to Joseph, and I noticed he had his hand on her arm as if he were steadying her. "I, quickly, asked her if she were well, and she replied that she could not be better. Then, she made her way to me and Mary.

I kept my left arm securely around my darling wife and pulled my mother close with my free hand. Mary and I both smiled as she kissed my cheek and said, "My dearest boy. I could not have imagined this moment even in my wildest dreams. Surely, I am witness to a miracle." I asked her if Dr Clarkson or Dr Head had explained how I had survived the accident and why I was away for such a long time.

Mary replied, "Isobel and I did not stay long enough to hear all the details. Once the doctor from London confirmed Dr Clarkson was not suffering a delusion and informed us of us your whereabouts, we flew from the room as if it were ablaze and made our way here as quickly as our feet would take us." Mary went on to say that she asked my mother to look in the car to be certain I was there, because she knew she could not bear it if she had found it empty.

As I held the two women I loved most close to me, I saw some of the servants gathering in front of the open doorway. I called out to Joseph, "Since it appears the cat is out of the bag, I think it safe that we make our way inside. He nodded and offered my mother his arm. She kissed my cheek once more before she let go of me and looped her arm through the detective's. As she did, she smiled broadly at him and offered him her thanks. I felt certain that I was witnessing the birth of a new friendship.

Mary and I bridged the distance to the house and saw the shocked expressions on the servant's faces. I had never seen Mr. Carson with his mouth agape before, and found his expression thoroughly amusing. Mrs. Hughes stood next to the Head Butler with her hand held over her heart and a huge grin on her face. Standing behind the two were Anna and John Bates along with a woman that I had never met who flanked Mr. Molesley. My former valet stared at me as if he were looking at a ghost, and swallowed hard.

As the group parted to allow us entrance, Mr. Carson bowed in my and Mary's direction and said. "Mr. Crawley, I am not often lost for words, but at this moment I can find none that will adequately express how pleased I am to see you."

I thanked him for the words he did find and offered him my hand, which he shook with enthusiasm. He then turned to Mary and said, "My lady, I am overjoyed that Mr. Crawley has returned to you."

Mary, too, thanked him, and she added that she would never forget how he supported her in what she considered the darkest days of her life.

Mrs. Hughes, now wiping away her tears, said "You are a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Crawley. Welcome home."

Anna and Mr. Bates repeated the head housekeeper's sentiments, and I shook the Head Valet's hand while Anna kissed Mary's cheek and told her that she could not be happier for her.

There was only Molesley and the woman who I did not recognize left before we reached the threshold. As he stood before me, I could see he was searching, as Mr. Carson had, for the right words.I was about to tell him that he did not have to say a thing, when he found his voice and said, "Welcome home, Sir. My view of life in general is much better now than it was a few moment's ago."

Mary and I made our way through the Servant's Hall where we glimpsed Mrs. Patmore comforting Daisy. I could only assume that the kitchen maid was thinking of the sweet lad who would never return to Downton. Joseph and Mother fell behind, allowing Mary and I to greet the rest of the family in the Great Hall first. They were all gathered around the massive Christmas tree that graced the center of the room.

I heard a collective gasp once they spotted Mary and I walking arm in arm. While the two doctors remained in place watching the scene before them unfold, Robert and Cora hurried toward us with Tom, Edith, Cousin Rosamund, and Lady Rose MacClare in tow. In seconds, the room was filled with raised voices and joyful tears. Mary let go of my arm when she saw Tom rushing toward me at an alarming speed. He pulled me into bear hug and cried out, "Good Lord, I cannot believe me eyes! I needed two shots of whiskey to calm me when Dr. Clarkson told us the news." Robert clasped my hand and his voice cracked as he said. "It really is you. My God, Matthew, you have made me a believer in miracles."

Cora and Edith each took one of my arms and told me how much I had been missed, and how overjoyed they were to have me back as they guided me to Cousin Violet, the only member of the Crawley family not standing. I was pleased to see that Michael Gregson was not there as I knew if Edith had continued on with him, it would have resulted in heartache.

The Dowager Countess was rendered to a chair at the insistence of Dr. Clarkson before he would breathe a word about why he had come. On our way there I passed Dr Head in deep conversation with Cousin Rosamund. I heard him telling her that she could have passed me on the street and she would not have known it was me as the mind only allows what is logical and forgoes the rest.

As the Dowager Countess saw us approaching, she smiled, and it widened once I was within her reach. She took my hand and said, "I am a firm believer in the maxim, 'You cannot keep a good man down." Her mouth formed into a sly grin before she added, "I must admit, however, that I never thought that applied to those that we buried."I told her that I was exceedingly pleased to find that she had not lost any of her wit in my absence. Then, I left the three ladies to rejoin Mary. On my way, Dr. Clarkson bid me a, "Good Night," as he was needed at the hospital.

Although I was thrilled to be home with my family, I ached to hold my son in my arms for what would be only the second time in both our lives. I shared this with Mary and she took my hand and pulled me toward the staircase that led to the bedrooms and the nursery. Two chaps that I had never met before were standing huddled together not far from our destination looking very much like fish out of water. As we came upon them, Mary seemed a bit flustered as she introduced me to Mr. Charles Blake and Lord Gillingham. I assumed that they were the house guests that Robert had mentioned to Clarkson, and left it at that.

Then, we were off to see our son. George was in his nanny's arms when we entered the room as she was about to place him in his crib for the night. Once he saw Mary, he excitedly reached out for her and cried, "Mama," Mary took him into her arms and kissed his forehead as his nanny excused herself to attend to Miss Sybbie's bath. I remembered the tiny baby with dark hair that Mary had placed in my arms, and I marveled at the difference in his appearance. I exclaimed, "Mary, the color of his hair has changed!"

She ran her fingers through our son's golden locks as she had done so often my own and told me that with each month that passed from the time of his birth, George's hair became lighter and lighter until he appeared a miniature version of his father. I responded that I did not agree with her comparison as George was the most beautiful child I had ever laid my eyes upon. At the moment he was intent on playing with Mary's necklace.

As she removed his hand, she asked, "Would you like to hold him, Matthew?" I did, but was afraid he would be frightened as I was a stranger to him, and said as much to her. Mary told me that she often had shown our son the picture that she kept on her nightstand of the two of us on our wedding day. She then spoke to George in a gentle tone as she passed him over to me. "Remember your Papa from the picture, darling. This is your Papa." I held my breath as I awaited his reaction to me. He touched my face with his chubby little hand and cried out, "Papa." I felt my heart burst with happiness, and kissed his forehead as his Mama had.

Looking into his eyes, the exact color of my own, I smiled at him and said, "Yes, my dear little chap. I am your Papa."

George fell asleep cradled against my chest. As I looked down at his angelic face, I felt all was right with the world. Once Mary saw that he had nodded off, she took him from my arms and, carefully, placed him into his crib. We both stood side by side for a moment looking down at our little prince with wide smiles on our faces. Judging by the length of time we had spent in the nursery, I knew the dinner gong would be rung before long and apologized to Mary that I had not packed any clothes that were not essential. Mary told me that she could care less if I changed for dinner, but if I wanted to, my wardrobe had not been touched. Every item of my clothing remained as it had been in my Dressing Room.

She shared with me that many times during the first year after she had lost me, she would go into my Dressing Room and rummage through my clothes. My scent that remained on the items soothed her. I remembered what Dr. Clarkson had told me about her state during the first six months after she was informed I was dead, and imagined how much of "a rough go" it was for her. I told Mary how sorry I was to put her through it all, but she would not accept my apologizing. She blamed herself, instead, for insisting we go to Duneagle and then convincing me to stay behind when she came back to Downton with Anna.

She cried, "If I had listened to you and not been so stubborn, perhaps the accident would never have happened." I made it quite clear to her before we went down to dinner that the only person responsible for my accident was myself as I had taken my eyes off the road and overreacted to the sight of an oncoming vehicle. I added that I believed I was meant to have that accident, and it could have happened at any time.

I was pleased to hear when I took my place at the dining table that Robert had insisted that Mrs. Head and Lilian come to Downton to share in the celebration. They would be picked up at the train station at 11:00 o'clock in time to ring in the New Year with their loved ones. It pleased me to no end to know that my two families would meet and get to know one another. I, also, learned that Mr. Blake and Lord Gillingham had decided that it best that they return to London in order to give the family the opportunity to enjoy our reunion in private. Mary looked relieved by the announcement. Her reaction led me to think there was more to their leaving than would meet the eye. I pushed that thought out of my head for the moment, and enjoyed the always lively dinner conversation, made even more so by Dr. Head bantering with Cousin Violet. In him, I thought she had finally met her match. He was surprised when Cousin Violet informed him that I was the heir to Downton Abbey, but not impressed by the knowledge that he and his wife had housed the future Earl of Grantham for two years.

Mrs. Head and Lilian arrived at about 11:30, and I took charge of making all the introductions as well as the announcement that Miss Pomeroy and Detective Cosgrove had become engaged to be married the night before. The couple was bombarded with well wishes as Robert passed around glasses of champagne. I saw Lilian whisper something in Joseph's ear and, then, make her way across the room to Mary. I took her place beside Joseph, and we both looked on as the women we loved became acquainted with one another.

The detective inclined his head in Mary's direction, and said, "You are a very lucky man, Matthew." I told him he would get no argument from me on that score, and then added, "As are you, Joseph." I had told my wife earlier of Lilian's efforts on my behalf at the London Hospital, and when they were properly introduced, she took my former nurse's hand and clasped it between hers. I heard her say, "Thank you for all you did for Matthew. I am forever in your debt." Lilian smiled my way, and returning her gaze to Mary, she replied that no thanks were necessary as she was happy to help in any way she could. She added, "It is not every day that a man as kind and good as Mr. Crawley comes into your life." She, then, crossed the room to rejoin Joseph.

As Mary looked at me, I could see that her eyebrows were raised high. I knew Lilian was the reason that they were, and Mary would have some questions for me regarding my former nurse. I found I was correct as we stood before the fire out of earshot and she asked me if I had ever figured out that Miss Pomeroy had been in love with me. I could feel the color rise to my cheeks, and as it did Mary spared me by saying, "Don't worry, darling, I have no doubt that Miss Pomeroy is in love with Detective Cosgrove, but I, also, know that you will always hold a special place in her heart." I did not deny it, but did ask Mary how she could be so sure. "I could tell by the way she looks at you," she said with certainty. It is the same way I did when you were about to marry Lavinia."

While I waited, along with everyone else, for the clock on the mantle to strike 12, I glanced around the room at those I cared about the most in life. Cousin Violet and Mother were laughing as they sat close together, Tom was in an animated conversation with Edith and Lady Rose that had something to do with baby Sybbie getting a new tooth, Dr. Head and his wife were chatting with Robert, Cora and Cousin Rosamund as though they were old friends, and Lilian was popping a canopy into her fiancée's mouth. The sight pleased me immensely. Then, the moment we had been waiting for was at hand.

Robert raised his champagne glass and asked everyone to do the same as he shouted "Happy New Year." He looked directly at Mary and I and added that there never had been a happier one. As I pulled Mary close and kissed her, I could not have agreed with him more.

I then turned my attention to my mother and kissed her cheek as I said, "Happy New Year." She said, once again, with tears in her eyes, "My darling boy...it is now."

The festivities ended about an hour later and Mary and I made our way to our bedroom. No sooner had the door closed behind us, I took my beautiful wife in my arms and kissed her the way I had yearned to from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Our passion was ignited quickly, and before long our clothes were strewn about the room as we rediscovered one another beneath the coverlet that lay atop our bed. It was as though we two had been starved and now found a feast placed before us. In that vein, we gorged ourselves until we could not take another bite. We were still awake, though exhausted, as the first morning light made its way through a crack in the curtains. I knew it would not be long until sleep would overtake us, and if I were to rest peacefully, I must get an answer to the question that had been playing on my mind since dinner.I took a deep breath and asked, "Are you romantically involved with Mr. Blake or Lord Gillingham?"

Mary raised her head off my shoulder and hesitated a moment before she rose on her elbow to face me. Then, she looked me straight in the eyes and replied, "They have been vying for my attention for some time, and I admit that I encouraged it thinking you were lost to me forever. I was very lonely, Matthew." She continued, "I will not lie to you and say I was not attracted to them both, but that feeling has evaporated as quickly as a drop of water under an August sun in Cannes."She searched my eyes before asking me, "Is that enough of an explanation?"

It was more than enough, and I told her so. I, then, guided her head back onto my shoulder. It remained there along with the arm she had draped over me as we kissed one last time before wishing each other a "Goodnight." As my eyes began to close, I reveled in the knowledge that all the pieces of the puzzle were back in place making it whole again, as was my heart.

Mary and I spent the next couple of days catching up on lost time and spending every spare moment that we had with George. The little chap made quite an impression on the locals in Ripon when he accompanied us there to find an engraver. I know now that I had not been wrong when I told Mary that she would be an excellent mother. It is clear that she is by the way George adores her, just as his Papa does. Tom, with baby Sybbie in his arms, brought me up to speed on how the estate has faired in my absence. I have learned that he and Mary have worked tirelessly to keep my vision for Downton alive, and they have succeeded. Robert is ecstatic that the financial burden placed on the estate by death taxes has now been negated. His attorney, Mr. Murray, has his work cut out for him in sorting that out, though his first action on behalf of the Crawley family has been to have me declared legally alive. The task was made easy as I happily provided him the proof he needed.

I am not sure if legal action is going to be taken against Graspeys for their representing someone else's ashes to be my own. Joseph paid them a long visit before returning to London with Lilian and the Heads. The moment of their departure was filled with emotion. As I shook Dr. Head's hand, I searched for words that would convey the depth of my gratitude for all he has done for me, but none that I found seemed adequate. I ended by telling him that beside Mary and George, no one had changed my life for the better as he had done. He smiled and told me, "As you have changed mine, Matthew."

Mrs. Head asked me, before getting into the car, if I had given Mary the journal that I had begun as Patient #9 in a hospital room in Whitechapel. I told her that I had that very morning, and that Mary was thrilled to receive it. It was difficult to watch my adopted family drive away in Dr. Head's car, but I was comforted by the knowledge that this chapter in my life would never be fully closed. Mrs. Head promised that they would take Robert and Cora's invitation to heart and visit Downton often. We Crawleys, in turn, have vowed that we will see them all soon in Eaton Square as Rose will be coming out this Season. I look forward to it, as I do all the other memories in the making that will fill the pages of the story of my life. My fervent wish is that they all include Mary, as I know with absolute certainty that I will love her until the last breath leaves my body. I can return to her now with an unfettered mind as my mission here has been accomplished.

**AN: This story could be cannon. Since the number of reviews is a factor in a reader choosing a story, please add to number by leaving your comment.**

**We can bring Matthew Crawley back one reader at a time.**

** Though Matthew's memory returns here on the eve of 1923, he could have remained in the dark about his past for a much longer period of time as did the soldier in France. If you doubt the explanation I gave for Matthew returning from the dead, please research "The Lazarus Syndrome." I think you will be amazed, as I was, that people have returned to life who were declared dead even in the 21****st**** century. The explanation that I gave here as to how it is possible is the theory that has been accepted by many in the scientific community.**

**There will be an epilogue sometime during the holiday season. I hope the length of this chapter hasn't steered you away. Once I started it, it took on a life of its own! In any event, I think I honored my promise and provided you with a theory that does make sense. **

**As has been the case throughout this story, many of the characters and events are based on history. Sadly, Dr. William Halse Rivers died on June 4****th****, 1922. Geoffrey Harold Wooley and Siegfried Sassoon, the famous WW1 poet, did attend his funeral and it was described with accuracy as is my opening line, a quotation by the Scottish poet, Alexander Smith. **


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